This Tangle of Thorns
by the risky business of writing
Summary: Her mother had gotten herself a new lover. His name was Tom. Modern AU. No magic. Slightly inspired by Lolita.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: first attempt at modern Tomione! I should clarify, I know that Lolita has nothing to do with healthy romance, but this is more of an experiment, a pretty dark experiment, to be fair. I hope you enjoy it. Also, warnings for some dubious consent along the way and underage stuff. This story takes place in the 90s, if anyone was wondering. I've changed some details from canon, including Hermione's mom's job. There will be some tie-ins with the books here and there, but that's about it. Please give it a try!_

* * *

 **One**

* * *

Her mother had gotten herself a new lover. He was younger than her by a good ten years, but that was probably the appeal.

His name was Tom, or that's as much as she got from her mum. She wouldn't introduce him to her daughter until she got to know him better. Safe to say, he was in his late twenties and he managed a bookstore. Hermione's ears perked up at that. Mum's boyfriend could come in handy. She loved books so much, she'd be willing to put up with him even if he was awful.

Hermione did miss her dad sometimes. She didn't get to see him so often anymore, as he was always travelling on business and when he wasn't, he usually spent time with his new wife. He was getting on with his life.

It didn't matter, she supposed. Ever since the divorce, she had mostly focused on school. Prior to their separation, her mum and dad had decided their daughter would go to public school, since she had the marks and qualifications for it, but as a single mother, Jean Granger thought it was safer and less expensive to have Hermione attend a _very_ good state school. Hermione wasn't bitter about the less prestigious prospects, since her main goal was getting into Cambridge at eighteen. The rest was just a distraction.

Some people might've called her a swot, and they _did_. But she genuinely loved learning. It was her haven, her refuge. Sitting up in her room with a good book could fill up the loneliness left behind by a shattered marriage and a slightly absent mother.

Besides, she had just turned fifteen. She didn't need her parents anymore. She was almost grown up.

.

* * *

"Oh, hon, could you turn that off? I see enough bodies at the hospital as it is. We're trying to have dinner."

Hermione took one final look at the TV screen. The seven o'clock news was talking about that dead woman again, the one who had been found ice-cold in her own bed with a scarf in her mouth. So far, no suspects. She turned it off and joined her mother in the kitchen.

They ate in silence for a while, Jean watching her daughter carefully, waiting for the right moment to ask her something.

"Sweetheart...how would you feel if I asked Tom for dinner, one of these days?"

Hermione shrugged. "Haven't you already gone out to dinner with him?"

"I meant _here_ , in our home."

"Oh. Well, that'd be all right. I don't have a problem with it, if it makes you happy." It sounded a little practiced to Jean's ears, because it was. Hermione had been dreading this conversation for a while now, so she'd prepared for it by rehearsing some appropriate responses. Her feelings aside, she wasn't going to stand in the way of her mother's happiness.

"I want you to be _happy_ as well, love," Jean said, reaching out to take her hand.

Hermione smiled a brittle smile. "I am. The house's too quiet anyway. We could use some new blood."

Her mother smiled lovingly. She adored her daughter's precocious manner. Hermione always had a clever answer for everything. She was such a brave girl.

"All right then. Next Tuesday, I'll ask him over."

* * *

Hermione arrived back from school a little breathless. She'd missed her bus and had to make the journey home on foot. The reason was that she'd stayed overtime in the Chem Lab to finish up her extracurricular project. She was going to write a paper on it too. Her professors had encouraged her to try out for a young scientist's grant. It would look wonderful on her resume and it would also give her a boost for her future academic career. She was contemplating receiving the congratulatory letter in the mail and she entirely missed that, not only was it Tuesday, but it was also seven o'clock and her mother was sitting with someone in the living room. She waltzed past them absently, dropping her schoolbag in the hallway and taking two stairs at a time.

"Hermione, sweetheart! Tom's here!"

Hermione froze on the steps. Her mother's voice sounded cross. And no wonder! She'd completely forgotten about the family date. She groaned under her breath and made the journey back downstairs. She looked a fright. Both her school blouse and her fingers were stained with ink, her stockings were torn at the knee, her skirt was crumpled and her hair was a giant, untamed mess.

"I – sorry, I lost track of time at school," she said as she turned the corner into the living room.

She stopped and took her mother's new beau in.

He was...well, he was unexpected. A tall young man with a regal profile, a pair of full lips, and a sharp jaw line. Handsome, no doubt, but not her mum's usual type. Her mother opted for kind and sturdy-looking men who were hoping to settle down. Tom seemed...aerial. His beauty was strange and cold, almost as if he were removed from earthly things. She couldn't picture this man settling down to start a family. She also couldn't picture him working in a bookshop.

"Hermione, this is Tom Riddle. Tom, this is my daughter, Hermione. She's in year ten at school. She's an excellent student."

Hermione felt a little awkward at her mother's concise description of her person. But she supposed she wouldn't know how to introduce herself any better.

Tom glanced at her with something akin to boredom, but it wasn't the rude kind of boredom of young people, but rather the disinterest of adults who don't care about children. There was _something_ in his gaze, though. Something weighted and shrewd. She didn't know what to make of it. Was he wondering how much of a bother she would be, as Jean's daughter?

"Hi," she said, feeling stupid.

A beat, and then he leaned forward and offered his hand. "Hello, Hermione."

She frowned. Was she supposed to cross the room and shake his hand? Her mother's pointed gaze said yes. But why didn't _he_ get up and come to her? It was only polite, after all.

Hermione sighed and marched in his direction. She'd taken off her shoes at the door and she felt downright silly walking in her stockings. But it couldn't be helped. She resented her mother for this, even though it was her fault she'd been late.

Tom gripped her hand tightly, almost as if he were trying out her endurance. Hermione didn't wince, although she had to grit her teeth. Men were such physical beasts. His palm was warm, however, and when she let go, she still felt the ghost of his fingers on her wrist.

She must've imagined that. She didn't want to like him any more than she had to. He seemed like the type who'd want her out of the way, anyway. She'd be happy to oblige.

"Hermione, dear, what happened to your knees?" her mother asked with mild concern.

"I, er, tore them when I was coming out of the Lab. Happens to the best of us. I'll just get a new pair."

She tried not to feel too embarrassed as Tom's eyes were now trained on that particular spot too. She _really_ wished she hadn't been late.

She thought she sensed disapproval in the crease of his brow, but if he had something to object about her apparel, he'd have to stuff it, because he wasn't her dad.

"Well then, you should go change so we can sit down and eat, what do you think?" Her mother wasn't really asking.

Hermione nodded obediently. "I'll be down shortly. It was nice meeting you...Tom."

"Are we parting?" he asked, the corners of his lips lifted up in the replica of a smile. "You will see me again when you come down."

"Uh, right. My mistake," she rectified, trying not to colour. He was already making her feel stupid. She _hated_ being made a fool. She was just trying to be nice.

"Charming daughter," Hermione heard him say perfunctorily once she was up the stairs again. She disliked him already.

* * *

The dinner was an incredibly dull affair. Hermione and her mum usually found a lot to talk about when they ate together, but with Tom at the table, the conversation was strictly adult-oriented. Hermione mostly sat in silence, trying not to sulk, because that was bad manners. She moved her peas around her plate listlessly as her mum recounted some hospital anecdotes from the previous week. Jean Granger was a professional nurse and one of the best in the staff at St Bartholomew's. Her stories would usually keep Hermione on the edge of her seat, as there was always a bit of excitement in a hospital. But with _Tom_ there, Jean had turned into a giggling schoolgirl and was only telling him the most _inane_ gossip about her co-workers and patients. He seemed to lap it up, however, as he was completely engrossed in what she was saying. His eyes never once looked away from her face and he kept nodding sympathetically every time he was required.

Hermione had to admit, they looked _perfect_. He seemed to be hanging on her every word and she was clearly besotted with him. But it was _so_ strange. This was nothing like her sensible mum who'd always kept her guard up until she was sure she'd found the right one. "After all, I don't want a repeat of your dad," she'd often say. She supposed Tom _was_ the right one.

This was a good thing, wasn't it?

So why did she feel a strange chill in the air? Like something was terribly wrong?

She was probably being paranoid. Her mother was _glowing_. When was the last time her mother had glowed? She deserved this.

Feeling guilty about her thoughts, Hermione offered to pick up the plates and make some coffee. Jean smiled gratefully at her daughter.

"I'm so lucky, aren't I? To have such a wonderful girl?"

"Oh, yes, she's perfectly well-behaved," Tom agreed heartily.

Hermione dumped the plates in the sink and cast a glance over her shoulder. _Perfectly well-behaved?_ Who did he think he was? Mary Poppins?

Their eyes met, by accident, just as he was whispering a sweet nothing in her mother's ear. She felt a deep shiver run down her spine. For half a second, he had given her the kind of look he would probably only give her mother. But no, it had only been her imagination, playing tricks again. He was completely focused on Jean. Why on earth would he look at a gawky fifteen year-old anyway? Not that she'd ever want him to.

Hermione snapped out of it and focused on taking out the coffee service. He'd soon be gone and she could go up to her room and bury herself in her books, where everything was safe and normal.

She looked over her shoulder again, but Tom was only staring at her mum.

* * *

"We should do this again sometime," Jean suggested shyly, giving him a small peck on his way to the door.

Tom smiled a perfect smile, the kind that made her knees go weak and her cheeks flush with heat. He knew how to work her so well.

"I'd love to, Jean."

When he got out in the cool night air, he looked at his blue thumb. It was stained with ink, from where he'd shaken the girl's hand.

 _Hermione._

What a strange apparition she had been. Plain, yet entrancing; clumsy, yet proud; innocent, yet something more.

He stuck his thumb in his mouth and tasted her stain. Just when he'd lost hope of ever escaping his dreary confines...he'd found someone special.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: thank you for your reviews! I really appreciate your interest and I hope you like the new chapter!_

* * *

 **Two**

* * *

The next time Tom came to dinner, he brought gifts. It wasn't Jean's birthday, or Hermione's for that matter, but he said that presents should not be given only on special occasions.

"It suggests we only care for that person one day a year," he argued deftly while Jean, blushing profusely, received the small package from his long fingers.

The three of them were stationed in the living room again. Hermione hadn't been late this time around. She had got home from school early and gone up to her room and made sure none of her stockings were torn. But she was antsy, as she sat next to the mother on the divan, waiting her turn. It was becoming painfully clear that Jean and Tom were not just a passing fling anymore. She did not know if she was ready for the permanent change.

"Oh, Tom, you shouldn't have! Really, it must have cost you a small fortune! Look, darling, isn't it lovely?"

Her mother was holding a beautiful emerald necklace. The green stone swung gently between her fingers, like a butterfly without wings. It looked so delicate and fine. Hermione could already see it around her mother's throat.

"Yes, it's beautiful. The emerald symbolizes unconditional love."

Jean gasped, pleasantly surprised. "It does?"

Hermione nodded. "I read about it in a book. The stone was dedicated to Venus."

"She's right, of course," Tom said with an affable smile, his eyes trained on the young girl. "It is also the stone of patience. Patience and compassion."

"How wonderful, but you are spoiling me," Jean protested, flushing with pleasure. She let the necklace slip into her daughter's palm.

Hermione held it there, like a fragile heart that could be crushed if she clenched her fist. She stared at it for a moment before depositing it quickly on the coffee table in front of her.

"And this is for you, Hermione. I hope we become fast friends."

Tom extended a creamy package to her. Hermione reached out and grabbed it, feeling its hard and dense surface. She saw Tom's wrist peek out of his sleeve and she quickly averted her eyes.

"Well, open it, sweetheart," Jean coaxed her.

Hermione tore the package carefully, a feeling of dread and excitement building in the pit of her stomach.

It was a book. A very odd and beautiful book. The covers were made out of faded green leather, the kind that cracked under your fingers with age. The pages were yellow and soft to the touch, each of them protected with vellum. Their dust smelled like roses.

 _Oddities and Miracles of the Natural World_ was written in golden cursive on the front page. Below it there was a strange and inky inscription of a snake swallowing a sparrow.

No. When she looked more closely, she realized the snake bore wings and its head was avian in shape.

The book was dated. _1819_.

The author was _Anonymous_ , or so it said, in red cursive, under the inscription.

Hermione flipped over the pages in wonder. There were bizarre illustrations on every other page, creatures and plants which she had never heard of. There was an entire section on potions and elixirs, stuff that might have been labeled as poison today.

She dimly heard her mother's voice in the background.

"Well? Do you like it, sweetheart? Tom is expecting your reaction."

She looked up, becoming once again aware of the living room and the people in it. She had been lost in that strange tome. It was hard finding a way back.

"Yes, it's…it's very interesting. In fact, I've never heard of it before."

His lips twitched a fraction. "No wonder. It's part of a small and private collection."

"From your bookshop?" she asked, trying not to sound too eager. She did not want to betray her curiosity.

"Yes," he replied easily, but something about the way he'd said it left her in doubt. He had paused surreptitiously, as if he had meant to say something else entirely. "Yes, I thought it would be perfect for an inquisitive young lady like yourself."

 _Inquisitive young lady._

Hermione frowned. His adjectives made her feel small. "Thank you, I'm grateful."

Jean hummed under her breath, as if to say Hermione did not _sound_ very grateful.

Hermione tried a small smile, for her mother. "I can't wait to read it."

Tom inclined his head, the shadow falling in his eyes. "I'm glad."

The rest of the evening proceeded in the same fashion as the one before. Tom returned his attention to her mother and did not pay her any mind until dinner.

"You should go put that book upstairs," Jean told her when they were repairing to the kitchen.

Hermione dashed up the stairs without another word. She craved a moment of solitude. The book felt heavy in her hands. She wondered how many other hands had touched it.

She placed it on her desk, afraid to stack it with her other books. As if this one might turn the others bad. Her fingers lingered on the cracked leather.

Hermione left her room and waited on the landing. There were soft whispers coming from downstairs. She took the stairs slowly.

Tom and her mum were standing by the stove, their bodies so close there was no more air between them. From her vantage point, Hermione could see the back of her mother's head. Tom's expression was hooded. Like an alluring cipher that you could not crack. He leaned forward and his mouth descended on her mother's with startling passion. Jean gasped softly.

Hermione watched, unable to look away. There was something mesmerizing and nauseating about his sudden possession of her mother. She couldn't even blink. She wanted to turn back and run up to her room, but the noise she'd make would give her away. She had never kissed anyone, but she thought people generally closed their eyes when they were in the middle of such an act.

Not Tom.

Hermione inhaled sharply. His eyes were open. And he was looking at _her_. He had seen her, from across the room.

He was kissing her mother, and watching her.

When Jean pulled away with a small and embarrassed laugh, Tom smiled, still looking at Hermione.

Her mother went round him to fetch the colander for the pasta, and Tom raised a finger to his lips. His expression could only be qualified as mischievous.

Hermione understood.

She crept up as quietly as possible, climbing the stairs backwards.

She could feel her own breath in the back of her throat, like a bird desperate to get out.

"Hermione!" her mother called out, making her jump. "I hope you're not up there reading! Come down, dinner's ready!"

* * *

Hermione sat frozen in her seat for most of the meal. She was not in shock. She simply did not understand what she had seen. She wasn't sure. She had walked in on a private moment. And Tom had warned her off. But he had also –

"Hermione? Did you hear what Tom said?"

"Huh?"

"Don't be rude, darling. He was asking you a question," Jean chided fondly.

Hermione glanced at the cupboards lining the wall above his head. She couldn't look him in the eye.

"Sorry. I was distracted."

"Not to worry. I was just telling your mother about the bookshop. I was wondering if you and she would like to visit me there."

"Wouldn't that be exciting, Hermione? She always spends _hours_ between the shelves. I can't drag her out of the store sometimes."

"I'd love to," she replied, feeling slightly nauseous. "But I have a lot of schoolwork coming up."

Jean scoffed, squeezing her daughter's hand. "We'll find a day when you don't. And don't tell me you're not thrilled to spend an afternoon with books."

That was, indeed, a fact which was hard to deny. Ever since she had heard that her mother's new boyfriend was a bookshop owner, she had been meaning to invite herself there.

Now, she wasn't so sure.

Something about him did not feel right. Or maybe it was only a defense mechanism. She _wanted_ him not to feel right. This was her mother's first serious relationship since Dad. The school counselor had told her that divorce had a strange effect on children. They might say or do things they normally wouldn't. They might feel that every adult was out to get them, that they could trust _nobody_.

There was nothing wrong with Tom. She didn't like him very much, but he wanted to be friends, which was a normal attitude in her mother's boyfriend.

She thought of that strange book, sitting on her desk in her room. She had a funny feeling it had once belonged to him personally. She didn't know why. She was almost afraid to open it again.

It was ridiculous, really. Hermione liked to base most of her observations on fact and reason and logic. This was nonsense.

When it was time to say goodbye, she walked with her mother to the doorway.

"Oh, have I got my scarf?" Tom asked, touching his bare neck.

"Ah, I'll fetch it for you, I think I saw it in the living room," Jean offered with a smile. "Can't go out without a scarf in this weather. Instant pneumonia."

Her mother trailed off, still muttering about pneumonia.

Hermione and Tom stood alone at the door, the former looking forlornly after her mother, the latter staring at her.

After a moment, she turned her head and met his eyes. They were an opaque shade of grey.

"You'll tell me how you like the book, won't you?" he asked, and the words seemed to melt in the thick air between them.

She nodded, not trusting herself to say something adequate or polite.

"Biology and chemistry are some of your favourite subjects, aren't they?"

Hermione chewed on her lip. "How did you know that?"

"Your mother, of course," he answered smoothly, but just like before, she felt that Tom possessed a secret reservoir of knowledge, which had nothing to do with her mother.

She tried to suppress this feeling. It was nonsense.

Jean returned with the scarf. She wound it around his neck like a doting mother. Hermione stood back, arms crossed over her chest.

"I hope I will see you soon," Tom spoke, extending the words to her as well. He kissed Jean on the cheek and left them in silence.

* * *

That night, before bed, Hermione paused in front of her mother's bedroom. It used to be her father's too. It was too big for one person. She could see how her mother might get lonely here.

"I see you're thinking of something and you mean to tell me what," Jean remarked with a humorous smile. She was sitting at her dressing table, combing her hair.

"I'm thinking – well, I'm only wondering…"

"Yes?"

"Is Tom here to stay? I mean, in our lives?"

Jean put down her brush. "Would you like him to?"

Hermione's eyes widened. She hadn't expected her mother to sound so serious, so _invested_.

"It's not about what I like."

"Of course it is. One word from you, darling, and I drop him. I can't live my life without you in it. My daughter comes first, no matter what. If Tom doesn't agree with you, tell me now."

Hermione rubbed her foot against the carpet. She looked down at her white school socks, greyed at the hem from the washing. She wanted her mother to move on. She wanted _them_ to move on. Dad was no longer around and she was _fine_. She had school. But what did her mother have besides her job? Was it even fair to say Tom didn't agree with her? Her dislike was so peculiar and so ambiguous, she couldn't have said for certain if she truly wanted him gone.

She shook her head slowly. "He seems…wonderful."

"Does he, honestly?"

"He gave me a book," Hermione replied. "What more could I want?"

* * *

The next day, her mother was wearing Tom's necklace.

* * *

Hermione sat in bed with _Oddities and Miracles of the Natural World_ on her lap. She was staring at an illustration, signed by a mysterious S.S.

In it, a young girl, not much older than her, was lying down on a bed of stone. A man dressed in a white robe was leaning over her. His expression was bereft of human sentiment. He had pried her mouth open and was inserting a flask between her lips. Its contents were green. Just like the book covers. And the emerald necklace. The girl's face was frozen in horror – and ecstasy.

Whatever that concoction was, it was making her dream. Hermione could see the whites of the girl's eyes, drawn back like a curtain. And though the illustration was static, she could almost _feel_ the body vibrating. As if any moment now, the girl might take flight.

It was a seizure.

Hermione closed the book shut.

* * *

Days later, she remembered Tom's scarf. She remembered that he had asked for it and her mother had fetched it from the living room.

She also remembered the woman on the news who had been found with a scarf stuffed in her mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: thanks once again for your reviews and support! There's a small nod to Norman Spinrad this chapter, but it's very faint. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **Three**

* * *

Tom's bookshop was a very peculiar place. The moment she stepped foot inside it, she felt she had entered some kind of underground hub. The ceiling was low, the windows were tinted grey. Sunlight was not encouraged. Instead, giant light-bulbs dangled from the beams above her head.

Hermione was used to seeing neat shelves, organized by genre and name, spaced between them generously to give the buyer room to browse. But his place was stubbornly eccentric. The rows upon rows of books were stacked according to some mysterious method which made his shop look labyrinthine. It gave one a headache.

Many of the books were old and some were not even dated. She had not heard of half of the titles. Nor did they fit any _normal_ criteria. They could not be classified as sci-fi or fantasy. They could not be classified as anything. There was only one small pile of "normal books" that she recognized; a few leather-bound classics and even fewer paper-bound bestsellers. But that pile was pushed to the back.

The rest of the store was a menagerie of "Odd", with a capital O.

Under different circumstances, she would have been amazed, even enchanted. There was nothing she liked better than exploring a bookshop.

Not this one.

"I'm a collector, you see," Tom explained, as he brought forth a silver tea tray. "I find rare books. I stash secret knowledge." He smiled easily. "I have a select clientele that come to me when all the other shops cannot provide what they seek."

Jean sipped at her tea. "That sounds very impressive, doesn't it, Hermione?"

Hermione eyed her tea cup with reluctance. The beverage looked almost crimson, like blood poured into hot water.

"You do not like red tea?" Tom asked, standing in front of her with the teapot.

Hermione picked up her cup. "I've never had it before."

"There is a first time for everything," he murmured, withdrawing to the back of the shop. He returned with a plate of biscuits.

"The atmosphere is so scholarly, Tom," Jean said, accepting a biscuit. "And the smell is so rich. Hermione loves the smell of books."

Hermione nodded unhappily. She wished her mother would talk about something else.

She rejected a biscuit when she was presented the plate, but Tom did not seem affronted.

"Rough day at school, darling?" Jean asked. The underlying question was _Why are you in a mood?_

"I – yes, they gave us a pop quiz in Maths. I think I did fine, but I wasn't very prepared. I don't think it's fair to grade students based on daily performance. People can have bad days," she chattered, staring at the crimson liquid in her cup. School was always a good defence when parents became too inquisitive. She was sure she had aced her pop quiz. But if she were to tell her mother the _true_ cause of her anxiety – well, Jean would probably faint.

When her mother had picked her up from school that afternoon and announced they were going on a surprise trip to see Tom's bookshop, she had felt sick to her stomach.

But there was nothing to be done now but stay quiet and _watch_.

She had no physical proof that Tom was a "bad" man, or that he might even be a _killer._ The only thing she had was the power of rational observation. Hermione Granger did not cry wolf based on assumptions and intuitions. After all, this might all be in her head.

And yet…

"I concur," Tom said, sitting down at the table with his own cup. "And as remedy for your bad school day, I invite you to browse the shop at your leisure and pick up whatever you want. On the house."

"Oh, Tom, we can't accept this!" Jean cried with a laugh. "We must pay just like any customer."

"Nonsense. You're not _any_ customer," he said, gazing at his girlfriend lovingly, although Hermione thought she heard a catch in his voice.

"Well, you heard the man! Go ahead and have fun, love!" Jean encouraged her.

Hermione set down her cup. She was loath to leave her mother alone with a man who might be dangerous. But she did not want to raise her suspicions, or _his_.

* * *

Once she started going through his shop, she couldn't stop. It's not that she _liked_ it, but there was something impossibly tantalizing about the ludicrous books on display. She couldn't help going through them, quickly, like a thief.

Bizarre creatures, unholy instruments, fallacious histories, heretical religions, they were all there, in these tomes, written by mad men, she was sure. There was an entire book dedicated to the idea that the sun was inhabited by Solarians, a species of humans which were made of plasma and fire. There were drawings of them included in the pages; long-limbed men and women whose bodies were an effulgence of red and blue flames. She stared at their charred black eyes for hours.

"Did you like the book?"

Hermione turned around, dropping the Solarian book on the ground.

Tom picked it up with an elegant flourish. He brushed his fingers against the covers and dust scattered like gnats all around them. Hermione coughed. He raised his hand. She stepped back, her shoulder blades colliding with the shelf behind her. He shoved the book in its place, right next to her ear. His hand lingered on the spine.

His cuff was level with her eyes.

"What book?" she asked, trying not to sound scared. He could not intimidate her.

" _Oddities and Miracles of the Natural World_."

"Oh, that. It was interesting," she said curtly, wishing he would drop his hand so she might have a better chance to escape.

He leaned forward an inch. No one else would have noticed it, but she did.

"Did you read it?"

His eyes were surveying her face calmly, but there was a play of shadows in them, the way milk turns into white ribbons when poured into tea. What did the shadows say? She was not sure.

"I haven't finished it," she replied, pressing herself into the shelf.

"What part have you reached…if you don't mind my curiosity?"

 _I do. I very much do._

But she smiled a tremulous smile. The smile of a good schoolgirl who was not going to be daunted.

"The part with the young woman who is strapped to the stone bed."

His lips twitched. "Yes?"

"The man was trying to cure her seizures," she continued bravely. "But he was doing a very poor job."

"Oh?" he asked, tilting his head imperceptibly. There was always only the _hint_ of a movement with him, as if he did not wish to disturb the air around him.

Hermione could still see specks of dust floating between them.

"Yes. That's now how you treat an epileptic. The book is very dated, I assume."

His lips twitched again, but she was not sure whether it was amusement or anger which coloured them. She was not eager to find out.

"Indeed. It is very old. Older than you and I," he said, letting his hand fall to a lower shelf, next to her waist.

He smiled. "But even the misguided past contains a seed of truth. Wouldn't you agree, Hermione?"

"What truth is there in the suffering of a young woman?" she asked bald-facedly.

She quickly regretted her daring. She was afraid he might see through her.

But Tom's smile only widened. "A terrible truth, I'm afraid."

She swallowed thickly. Her throat felt parched. "Which is?"

"That suffering sometimes is pleasure. Suffering is release."

And his thumb grazed the fabric of her school skirt. He did not touch the skin or flesh, but she still felt the small movement, the slight ruffle of the cloth against her thigh.

Hermione licked her lips quickly and he followed the gesture with a collector's eye.

The air between them felt heavy and oppressive. If either of them moved, she feared something vital would be undone, something which kept the civilized world going.

She was deadly afraid in that moment. Not just of him, but of the _idea_ of him. A handsome young man with prying eyes and wicked words, whose thumb only _just_ nearly grazed the fold of her skirt. Innocent, but not quite.

And then, he stepped back and the spell was broken. His face was closed again. Polite and indifferent, as if she was only Jean's young daughter after all.

"Your mother must be looking for us. Let's not keep her waiting, shall we?"

* * *

"I can't believe it, this must be a first! You, leaving a bookshop empty-handed! Are you sure you don't want anything, Hermione?" Jean coaxed her with an amused smile. She thought the reason for her daughter's reluctance was mere pride and timidity.

"No, thank you."

"I think she wants to pay for whatever she takes," Jean said to Tom with a covert look.

"Oh, no, we shall have none of that. Besides, I believe _this_ is what struck her fancy. I caught her looking through it at length." And he produced the volume which he had put back on the shelf. _A True Account of Solarians: Their Manner and Culture._

Hermione could hardly look him in the eye. "I was only admiring the art."

"Then, please, don't let me stop you," he said evenly. His voice possessed a strange frequency. Jean only heard a considerate boyfriend, indulging the daughter of his sweetheart. Hermione heard a terrible man, inviting her to do something unorthodox.

Her mother patted her shoulder in approval. "Go on, darling. You've always liked speculative fiction."

Hermione took the volume with cold fingers.

Jean was relieved. How wonderful it was that Tom worked in a field that interested her daughter. Hermione could learn to respect him. And in time, she would not be afraid to ask him for books. In time, she might spend her entire day at his bookshop. And never be too shy or proud.

Jean smiled. She was already seeing a family.

.

* * *

Her eyes followed the words like a hangman watching his noose.

 _The Solarian's death is a violent affair, marked with celebration and cruelty. His body becomes very bright, the flames turning almost white with incandescence. He starts dancing slowly, then faster and faster, until he is only a blur. At the last second, he extinguishes with a flaring explosion that leaves his mouth agape, because he is drinking the Sun, he is returning to the fire that birthed him. He is consumed._

Hermione looked up at the ray of light which had fallen on her bed. She rushed to the windows and pulled the drapes shut. Then she lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling. She felt a strange ticklish feeling in her belly. Her thighs chafed. Everything was stiflingly warm.

Perhaps she too was a Solarian.

* * *

Her mother made tea one evening. It was red like fire.

"Tom's recipe. He swears by it. Rooibos with a dash of hot peppers."

Hermione stared at her mug with apprehension and curiosity. She poured copious milk in the mug, watching the white ribbons turn the tea pink.

She brought the mug to her lips and took a long sip. It pinched her tongue and alerted her senses.

"Now, how would you feel like the cinema next week? All three of us. How does that sound?" Jean asked with a hopeful lilt to her voice.

Hermione licked her lips. There were shadows in those white ribbons and she, despite better judgement, wanted to decipher them. Curiosity killed the cat.

Or simply killed.

"That sounds nice, Mum."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: thank you so much for all your reviews so far! I should mention this chapter has a few inklings of dub-con. It also has a young girl reacting to sexual advances in a way that seems to blame the victim, but it's actually the honest reaction of a young and confused person who is on the cusps of growing up. So yes. The story will grow increasingly darker and the trigger warnings might multiply. Just a heads-up for future chapters. Also, a reminder that this story takes place in the 90s so the references follow suit. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **Four**

* * *

Hermione hoped her mother would forget about the cinema outing, or perhaps choose to go with Tom by herself. But come Friday morning, Jean informed her that Tom had bought _three_ tickets to _Shakespeare In Love_.

"It's the new Gwyneth Paltrow movie. It's supposed to be quite good. Judi Dench is in it too."

Hermione hid her rather dismissive expression behind her mug of coffee.

"You don't seem excited," Jean teased, pushing the tickets towards her.

Hermione winced. "Do you think I want to watch a romance movie with my mother?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" her mother demanded, eyes narrowed.

"Well – there's going to be kissing and all that, I assume." _All that_ , of course, was code for intercourse.

"Oh, _tosh_. You're almost sixteen, I'm sure you know your anatomy. And this isn't going to be _that_ kind of movie. It's a serious period drama."

Hermione heaved a sigh. Was there no getting out of this?

"Look, if you don't want to come, that's all right. But wouldn't it be a shame to miss it? Tom bought a ticket for you too. He wants to include you, which I think is quite thoughtful of him."

Hermione did not think Tom Riddle _could_ be thoughtful, not in the way her mother meant. Calculated? Yes. Considerate? No.

And yet, there was that meddling sensation in the back of her throat, like an itch she couldn't scratch. What and _who_ else might Tom Riddle be?

Her newfound curiosity felt like a vice. Some of her classmates had already picked up smoking. This tasted like her first cigarette. She desperately wanted to cast it away, but the smoke was beckoning her.

She just had to know when to quit.

But if Tom really was a dangerous sociopath, she owed it to her mother to find out. She owed it to that dead girl on the news. Had _she_ smoked?

"Besides," Jean added in a bout of inspiration, "you could use this opportunity to borrow another book from him. I'll tell Tom to bring you something you'll like."

Hermione gulped down the bitter coffee. She had never felt this way about _books_ before. They were her favourite thing in the world. But the mere thought of perusing another ghastly volume from Tom's bizarre collection made her skin crawl. It also did something funny to her stomach.

Jean took her daughter's thoughtful silence to mean she was considering the proposition.

"Great then, it's settled."

* * *

Hermione had been to the cinema only a few times with her parents, when they were still a family. Some of her classmates would go to the movies in groups, but she was hardly ever invited to those outings. Not that she minded. She was not that interested in the visual medium. She felt there was something disappointing, even anti-climactic, in seeing a story played out before your eyes. A narrative was stripped of mystery once it became visible. Her father had called her a "snob" when she had not responded well to _Forrest Gump_.

"I'll give the book a try. Maybe I'll like it better," was her reply. She knew she was probably missing out on some great screen classics, but she'd still rather curl up with the printed word.

That was another thing. She did not enjoy _sitting_ in the cinema. It felt like being trapped in a womb and not being able to get out. The only source of light was the giant oppressive screen.

But she did not share these thought with her mum, who seemed very excited about the whole thing. Going to the movies felt like something a family would do.

Jean waved to Tom as she saw him standing in front of the cinema. He waved back, his mouth broadening into a smile that left the rest of his face perfectly blank.

"We got here a bit late," Jean apologized, touching up her hair. "My fault. Couldn't decide what to wear."

"You look lovely as usual," Tom offered, kissing her on the lips quickly.

Hermione turned her face away. She did not want to think of the growing physical intimacy between them. It made her stomach lurch.

"Hello, Hermione. It's nice to see you again," he said, as he put a possessive arm around her mother's waist.

"Hello," she returned coolly. She picked up a timetable from the ticket stand and poured over it closely. It was preferable to watching him play the perfect boyfriend. It was such a disturbing act.

"Shall we, then?" he asked, unperturbed by Hermione's lack of enthusiasm.

The seats Tom had purchased were smack-dab in the middle of one of the rows. Hermione would be surrounded by bodies on all sides. Like a pack of sardines. She hoped the movie would be short.

"It's a two-hour flick, so make sure you go to the bathroom before the movie starts," Jean told her unhelpfully.

Hermione groaned. Two hours stuck with her mum and Tom. What a delight.

She settled in next to her mother, who was sitting next to Tom. Hermione felt a little relieved that he was not in her general proximity. With her mother between them, she should be safe.

"Does anyone want any snacks?" Tom inquired obligingly. "On me, of course."

"No, thank you," Hermione muttered, picking up invisible pieces of fluff from her skirt.

"Nonsense, darling, you love popcorn," Jean wheedled her. "I'll have some too."

"Popcorn and soda it is," Tom murmured with a smile and left them alone.

"Oh, better pop into the loo actually. Coming with, darling?" Jean asked, picking up her purse.

"No, I'm fine."

Hermione relished being alone for a few moments. She looked at the people around her who were shuffling into their seats, carrying huge amounts of food and laughing and chatting with each other. She felt strangely disconnected from them. She too liked food and laughter and good company. But she had grown used to that company being her mum and _only_ her mum. Suddenly, there was a third person in their lives, an intruder, and possibly, a dangerous one. He seemed to captivate everyone around him, including the unflappable Jean Granger. That is what scared her the most; that her no-nonsense mother could fall for his charms so easily.

Hermione had fooled herself into thinking she was old enough now to be self-sufficient. But she was still a silly child. She still needed her mother. She still needed to know Tom would never take Jean away from her.

"Here you go."

Speak of the devil. Tom descended into the seat next to hers. Into her mum's seat, to be precise. Before she could say anything about it, he handed her the popcorn and soda. She placed them awkwardly at her feet.

"Now, I believe you have something for me."

His velveteen voice made her start.

" _What_? No, I certainly don't," she said stupidly.

He was sitting casually, one arm draped across his backseat and hers. Hermione couldn't help but notice he was wearing an elegant cashmere sweater that brought out his dark eyes. He really was disturbingly handsome.

"My book on Solarians, remember?" he inquired innocently.

Hermione let out a breath in relief. "Oh, that. Yes, I've got it in my sack. Hang on."

Tom hummed amused. "What else did you think I meant?"

"Nothing. But you have a way of speaking in…well, _riddles_ ," she replied, rummaging through her rucksack.

Tom chuckled, and the sound was low and throaty. Like the husky murmur of a well-trained beast. "Well put."

"Perhaps you should try being less obscure. I might understand you better," she said, determined not to falter under his gaze.

"You find me mysterious? When I am so _evident_ in my design," he replied with laughing eyes.

Hermione could find no words to respond to his taunt.

He took the weather-worn volume from her hands. "Did you like it better than the previous one?"

Hermione watched as the lights around them dwindled and flickered off. The movie was about to start. "Not _better_. But I suppose it gave me more food for thought."

"Food for thought?" he echoed, and there was still laughter in his eyes, but only a careful observer would have noticed. He could control his face with the precision of a projector, casting shadows and light however it suited him.

"Well, it's difficult to be blasé about a race of people that die from self-immolation," she replied archly, wishing her mother would return quicker.

"I am glad you were not... unaffected," he commented, as the light died from his eyes and they were ensconced in the darkness of the cinema.

"Jean told me you would be needing a new book to sate your appetite," he added.

Hermione felt a flush creep into her cheeks. She was glad he could not see her face. "I think I've got enough reading for school, thank you."

But Tom pulled out a thin volume from the voluminous pocket of his coat.

"School can dull the senses. This might sharpen them."

The screen was lit all of a sudden and a blazing white light hit her eyes. It also revealed the title of the small book he had given her. _The Art of Asphyxia._

 _Asphyxia… asphyxiation…the art of…_ she swallowed thickly.

"Oh, sorry, there was a line at the loo, have I missed anything?" Jean asked, settling in happily next to Tom.

"You missed nothing," he smiled tenderly. "Nothing but ads so far."

Hermione stared at her mother. Had she not noticed? Tom was sitting in _her_ place. Hermione was supposed to sit next to her mother. How would she survive two hours next to him?

She stuffed the horrid little book into her rucksack and picked up the popcorn and soda to shield herself from Tom.

She tried to focus on the film and keep her eyes trained on the screen, but his presence next to her was infuriatingly distracting, especially since he kept stretching his arm across her seat.

When she chanced a glance in his direction, she noticed that he had stretched his right arm around her mother's seat too. It was a comical portrait; the doting father figure, doling out affection equally between his wife and daughter. She wanted to throw up.

At length, she did become interested in the movie, or at least in the historical anachronisms that she could single out. Those Virginian tobacco colonies that Colin Firth kept mentioning were a total falsehood, at least in the tender year of 1590.

She was watching a scene where "Shakespeare" and Gwyneth Paltrow, dressed as a boy actor, were kissing heatedly in the wings when her mother mumbled something about her purse and Tom bent forward obligingly to pick it up.

Hermione felt it like a snake in the grass.

The way a serpent's tail might slither across your feet.

His fingers ghosted at her ankles for a few brief moments, but they felt much longer than that.

He might have only touched her by accident, in an attempt to retrieve the purse. Yet, his book on asphyxia lay dormant in her sack.

She imagined his hand wrapping around her ankle, twisting it, pulling it under until she sank into the floor of the cinema, until she was _no more_.

She moved her feet to the other side, earning some strange looks from the old woman sitting on her left.

"You're such a dear, thank you," Jean whispered, kissing Tom's cheek.

The next half hour went by in a blur. Hermione could only think of her ankles. It was as if her entire body had been shrunk and reduced to her feet. She couldn't concentrate on anything. She had trouble standing still too. She kept edging away from him, but there was only so much space left in her seat.

There were a few sex scenes, of course, but they were all mercifully short. She kept staring at her feet and trying not to look at "Shakespeare" palming Gwyneth Paltrow's breast.

She did not need to turn around to know Tom was probably smiling at her coy reaction.

Minutes passed by in agony.

Her mother, meanwhile, was telling Tom something about the scene they were watching. Judi Dench was on the screen, acting as stately as possible (and far too _modern_ , Hermione thought) for the part of Queen Elizabeth.

Tom chuckled into her mother's ear. Jean swatted him off unconvincingly.

Hermione realized the movie was about to end soon, since Judi Dench was making a very important speech about love and duty.

She was watching the walls for the lights to come up, when she felt his touch again.

Hermione stood frozen in her seat as she felt his knuckles rasp against her knee.

She turned her neck slowly. Tom was still whispering sweet nothings into her mother's ear. But the back of his hand was slowly climbing up her thigh.

Hermione gripped the arms of her seat and let out a silent breath.

The thin stockings were a poor barrier between his fingers and her skin. When his knuckles reached the hem of her skirt, she had to bite her lip.

She could see a woman sinking in the waters, struggling to come up for air. It was Gwyneth Paltrow, walking on a virgin shore.

Two of his fingers delved under her skirt and grazed the sensitive flesh of her hips. They skated maddeningly towards the mysterious place between her legs, and she had to cross her ankles and close her eyes to stop a scream coming out of her lips.

He was so close, so close to her centre, to the core that she was always so afraid to explore. Often she could not even look at it in the mirror when she took a bath. And here was a strange older man, touching her in that very place, making her squirm. She hated how intoxicating it was, how horribly divine. She did not want to feel this, but _oh_ , she did. Her thighs gripped his hand like a vise as his thumb rubbed against –

The lights came on all of a sudden, and his hand disappeared, as if by magic.

Hermione blinked. The people around her were rising from their chairs. The movie was over.

And yet, there was still a treacherous, sickly warmth between her legs, a testimony of his mark upon her.

Hermione stood stock-still, aghast at what she had done. She had let her mother's boyfriend touch her like that. And the evidence was all over her. Her cheeks were flushed. A sheen of sweat coated her upper lip. And her thighs…

"Oh, look at that!" Jean exclaimed cheerfully." She enjoyed it so much she doesn't even want to get up. Hermione, darling, the movie's over!"

She looked up at her trusting and loving mother and she felt sick to her stomach. She had betrayed her. She had done something horrible. And she could tell no one.

Tom was standing next to Jean, looking down at Hermione with an innocuous smile. He was the picture of a perfect boyfriend once again. How easily he could change skins.

"We should come see it again. I think she would enjoy it even more," he spoke genially. Jean agreed heartily, suspecting nothing.

Hermione did not know how she found her footing after that. She walked in a daydream. Everything was askew. The straight corners of the world had been bent out of shape. It felt like walking through a hall of funny mirrors.

When she stepped out into the street, the sky looked foreign.

She felt hot and cold all over.

"Might we go home now? I feel out of sorts," she whispered to her mother, but she caught Tom watching her with interest. She responded to his prying eyes with a glare of her own, but he merely smiled, amused.

Her misery was a game to him, she realized.

It was only after they had paid their hasty goodbyes and Jean was rushing her home ("you must have caught a chill, darling, you're quite feverish") that she remembered his book was still in her rucksack.

 _The Art of Asphyxia._

Hermione stopped by the side of the road and threw up.

.

* * *

Tom leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, where specks of dust danced with the maroon light of dusk and made brutish shadows.

He would enjoy parting her legs and making her scream.

He could picture her mean and delicate mouth opening and closing in a spasm, her sharp tongue begging him for mercy.

Her quick mind and innocent body fighting for control, and losing it every single time to him.

He couldn't get enough of it.

But first, he had to make sure he had Jean Granger in his pocket. The only way to achieve his design on the daughter was to marry the mother.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: thank you for all your reviews! Also, I want to wish happy birthday to the **Guest** who asked for an update. I hope the pace isn't too rushed so far, and I hope you like the chapter. All the warnings apply._

* * *

 **Five**

* * *

 _The Art of Asphyxia_ provided drawings as well as written text. The sketches were crude - almost amateurish in style - but very precise in detail. Hermione could see the tiny veins of the jugular pulsing in the poorly drawn throat. She could tell it was a woman's, despite the fact that the illustration only showed the decapitated neck, with no head attached. The hand that gripped the side of the throat was also too thick and hairy to be female. She thought it was unfair, that only a man could strangle. That only he had the power to cut off air. But then, it was possible that a strong woman could break a young man's neck. If she tried.

Hermione felt awful for thinking these things, but the images came unbidden in her head, potent and invasive. Sometimes they came to her when she was staring at the blackboard in class. The teacher would write a chemical reaction in white chalk, and the carbons would stretch and curl into fingers.

The hand was not the only available instrument, of course. There was also the necktie, the wash cloth, the scarf, the rope, the medallion, the necklace, the wire, and even the dental floss. They were all listed in the book and compared for efficacy and prescribed, like medicine, for specific ailments. For example, the wire was necessary if you wanted the asphyxiation to happen very quickly and with minimal bruising, except for a red line where the wire cut into the throat. The wash cloth, on the other hand, was useful for those with weak hands, who could not grip very hard. The scarf was playful. It could be used as a prelude to the actual strangling. It was erogenous. And it required great skill. The author (anonymous, of course) compared it to playing the piano.

It had taken her a week to even look inside the book. She had kept it hidden in a drawer, underneath old notebooks and diaries. The bouts of nausea had gone on for several days, unexplained. Jean took her to a doctor, who could find nothing very wrong with her.

"Perhaps a tad bulimic," seemed to be the conclusion. She needed to eat better, sleep more. Jean thought it was the stress of schoolwork.

Her teachers were also a little worried. Her grades were still excellent, but her attitude had changed. She had been so keen on the young scientist's grant. Now she did the work perfunctorily, waiting for it to be over. She sat in the Chem Lab with the textbooks in front of her and held the test tubes mechanically, picturing their transformation into living flesh and blood, into throats that she, one by one, choked to death.

Meanwhile, her mother was going on more dates with Tom. The good thing about them was that Hermione wasn't invited to tag along anymore. She soon found out why. Jean was stopping by Tom's place more often. It wasn't hard to imagine _what_ they did there, since her mother always returned from these visits with an almost obscene glow. Hermione was relieved to see so little of him, but she was anxious about her mother. Jean still wore the necklace Tom had given her.

 _The necklace is excellent for a surprise asphyxiation. It is no wonder that it is called the "lace" of the neck. Your victim may ask you to clasp the necklace at the back of their neck. This will give you a good position for grip adherence. It only takes a bit of effort to cut off their circulation, since most of their reflexes are relaxed and unsuspicious. Their soft muscles will give way under your grip, but you must not let anything distract you. The blood will rush very fast to your victim's cheeks and the image will be irresistible for a true connoisseur, but you must persist until the blood dissipates and the skin is eggshell blue._

Hermione kept wanting to show her mother the book, but there never seemed to be the right time for it, since Jean was now gone so often. She also felt complicit in its existence, as if _she_ had written it herself. The memory of Tom's fingers on her thighs was too fresh to discard. She felt that if she told her mother about _The Art of Asphyxia_ , then the other things would come tumbling out of her mouth as well, and she couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear the look on her mother's face. The hurt and the anguish.

But as the days turned into weeks, Jean talked of Tom in the tones of a woman irreversibly in love. Hermione caught her saying " _My_ Tom would never talk like that man" once, when she was complaining about a patient.

 _My Tom_. Jean had taken him in her possession. She had never spoken of Hermione's father like that.

It was a sure sign that things were going faster than they should. Hermione had to put a stop to it before it was too late. Even if her mother might end up hating her, she had to _save_ her.

Determined to unmask him (and herself, in the process), Hermione came home from school early one day and waited for her mother's arrival, sitting on the bed with her hands clasped in her lap. It almost looked like she was praying. She did not believe in God, but she hoped some mysterious divinity would give her the necessary strength to go through with this.

When she heard some commotion below, she inhaled once, grabbed the book from the drawer and rushed down the stairs.

"Mum, I have something important to tell you –"

She stopped dead on the fifth step.

Her mother's eyes were smarting with tears. Her hand was clutching her mouth in exhilaration. Tom was kneeling before her, holding in his hands a ring box.

"Jean Granger, will you be my wife and spare me the misery of living without you?" he asked softly.

Jean stared between her daughter and Tom. Her runny eyes seemed to ask _Can you believe it? Can you believe it's happening?_

Hermione couldn't – it was all too absurd – but she could already tell her mother wanted to say yes.

"I…Tom this is so…I'm so overwhelmed," Jean spoke shyly.

"I know. I am sorry that I could no longer wait to tell you how I feel. I love you dearly, Jean. But of course, I will not rush you. You must discuss this with your daughter," Tom said, kissing her hand softly, still kneeling. He looked almost seraphic. One could forget, in a flash, what he was capable of.

But Hermione had the proof in her hands. She simply had to be cold-blooded. She had to trample on her mother's feelings to save her.

"Yes, we should discuss it," Hermione said, walking down the stairs. "In fact, you should take a look at this."

She feared Tom would try to intercept her, so she almost threw the book in her mother's hands.

"What have you got here, darling?" Jean turned it over, confused. She stared at it for a long moment, and then she opened it to the first page.

Tom had risen from the floor and was watching Jean intently. Hermione thought he did not look as confident as before. She felt a small bout of victory.

But why was her mother taking such a long time reading the first page, instead of flinging the horrible thing in Tom's face?

"Oh, Tom, you shouldn't have done this. It's – I don't have any words…" her mother whispered and started crying in earnest.

Hermione couldn't help the smile that played at the corners of her mouth. Tom had set himself up for failure when he had given her the book. There was nothing he could do now.

But there was something wrong about her mother's tears. Something maudlin and vulnerable. She ought to have been angry on her daughter's behalf.

Instead, Jean walked up to Tom and put her arms around his neck.

Hermione opened her mouth in shock. "What are you doing?"

"Come here, darling! Oh, I'm so happy!"

And she saw Tom and Jean both open their arms to her, to join in the embrace. When she still sat there, stupefied and unable to move, they came to her. She was suddenly pulled between them, the warmth of their bodies pressing against her, and Tom's hand settling on the small of her back. It felt like being slapped.

When it was over, Jean wiped the tears from her cheeks and laughed. "It's so silly of me to weep, but there hasn't been this much love in this house for a long time."

Hermione picked up the book which had fallen on the floor.

 _The Modern Family: How To Cope With Adversity_ , was written in bold letters on the front. The cover art showed a mother, daughter and father eating a picnic in a beautiful, lush meadow, while rain clouds gathered above their heads.

The book was thin, almost as thin as _The Art of Asphyxia_. But they were undeniably different in texture.

Hermione's hands were shaking. She had been sure. She had taken the book out of the drawer without even looking, because she had been _sure_ it was the one that incriminated him beyond all doubt. How could it be a different book?

She turned to the first page. There was a small dedication, written in beautiful calligraphy by none other than Tom.

 _To Hermione,_

 _A wonderful girl, whom I hope to one day call Daughter._

 _Much love,_

 _Tom_

"Is this what you wanted to show me, darling?" Jean asked, holding onto Tom's arm.

Hermione did not recognize this feeling growing inside her, replacing the shock and sadness with a warm substance, one that seemed to slip poison in her bloodstream. She was seething.

If she screamed right now, she wasn't sure she would be heard. The boldness of his fingers and looks and words seemed like a dream - ridiculous and gone before you're even awake.

She lifted her face and smiled a cold, hateful smile.

"Yes. I wanted to tell you Tom was already thinking of proposing."

* * *

He was, in spite of his own perfect composure, _thoroughly_ impressed with her. He had come prepared for a scandal, for shouts and accusations. He would have disqualified them all serenely, making her look like the sad and lonely fifteen-year old who craved the attention of an older man.

But look at her now, look at her cold-blooded smile, listen to her clever words. She was _good_. He had not expected her to be this good.

She was already a thing to behold.

Making her his would be the crowning achievement of his career.

* * *

Later that evening, as the ring box sat on her mother's bedside table, Hermione asked her if Tom had been around the house recently.

"Of course not, darling, or you would know. Oh - hang on, he did pop in two days ago before he drove me to work. He needed to use the restroom. Why do you ask?"

So that is how he had done it. Hermione thought of him climbing up the stairs softly, but instead of turning right for the bathroom, he turned left and walked into her room. _Her_ room, where she hid her most intimate self. He had gone through _her_ things. He had found the book underneath her notebooks. (Had he read the diaries?) But he had put everything back into place. She had found nothing amiss.

"No reason at all."

She went to her room and emptied the drawer. She put everything inside it in a garbage bag and threw it in the bin outside.

* * *

A week later, Tom was moving into the Grangers' house.

"Just to see how it goes before we make it official. So many marriages break up because the couple can't live together. In fact, something similar happened to me and your dad," Jean explained blithely. "Tom's flat is so very small, anyway."

Her mother was preoccupied with redecorating and making the house as welcoming for Tom as possible. She was excited about getting new curtains for the bedroom and maybe giving the walls a fresh paint.

Hermione received the change with numb acceptance. She felt as if the train had left the station, and whatever was left to say had been lost for good. Where would she even begin? The first evening Tom had come to visit? The weighted look he had given her over her mother's shoulder? But that was such a long time ago. And would anyone believe her?

Sometimes, she did not believe Tom had really touched her.

She woke up in the middle of the night and scrambled out of bed and ran to her mother's room to tell her _everything_ , and then she stopped. She was always pulled back by her own feet. Because it was too late.

The best she could do now was watch over her mother constantly and make sure he would never hurt her. Maybe living with Tom would drive Jean away from him. Even though he was a perfect actor, no one could keep up the act while living in such close quarters.

There was still some time before the marriage. She could still stop this. If nothing else, she would call her dad and tell _him_ everything. Her father would know what to do.

"Hermione! Tom's arrived! Come and greet him!"

She could see his elegant leather bags on the doorstep, waiting to be picked up, but Hermione turned away, ignoring her mother's call. She did not want to see him until it was absolutely necessary.

* * *

She was taking a shower before dinner to get the smell of chemicals out of her skin. She had spent another late afternoon at school. There was going to be champagne, her mother told her, and Hermione would be allowed to drink some too. Jean had also bought a fat, pink salmon for the occasion. She was making something special, to celebrate Tom's arrival.

Hermione locked the bathroom door and stood still under the unbearably hot spray, wondering if Tom was walking around the house right now, putting his mark on all the things that used to be hers and her mum's. After all, he had already tainted her room.

He must have laughed at the teddy bear she still kept next to her pillow.

She rested her forehead against the cool tiles and counted back from one hundred. She just had to make it through the evening and then she could go to bed early.

 _Ninety-seven….ninety-six…ninety-five…._

She had reached eighty-four, when she felt a terrible sting in the middle of her scalp, and suddenly, a hand was yanking her hair. Her head emerged from the shower curtain and rested against his dry shoulder. They were ensconced by large clouds of steam. The water was still running.

"You did not come down to greet me this morning."

His mouth was pressed to her ear, his stubble grazing her jaw. His fingers gripped her hair painfully.

Hermione was so shocked by this unfiltered contact that she almost forgot she was stark naked. The shower curtain still covered half of her body, but if Tom cared to look, he could glimpse more than anyone had ever seen of her.

Yet, she felt his gaze locked on her trembling cheek.

"I – I didn't want to greet you," she mumbled, looking up at the white ceiling.

His breath fell hot on her naked shoulder. "How shall I punish you for that slight?"

"Haven't you done enough? I know you went into my room. I know you switched the books," she retorted, feeling her skin prickle despite the stifling warmth.

"You have such a vivid imagination, Hermione. Truly remarkable what young girls will come up with these days," he purred, letting the words wash over her slowly.

"I hate you."

"Is that any way to talk to your future father?"

"You'll never be my father," she spat, trying to twist her head away, but he held on fast.

He chuckled and the sound reverberated against her spine."You're right. I will be _so_ much more." And he planted a ghostly kiss underneath her jaw, where he could feel her pulse beating like a wild sparrow.

Hermione felt she was choking, even though there was no hand around her neck.

Lips.

That was what the book had omitted from its long list of methods and means. Lips could cut off your breath. Lips could strangle you.

When he let her go, she stumbled and fell against the hard wall. She pressed her cheek against the tiles and closed her eyes. The hot water felt icy cold.

"How did you - ? The bathroom was locked," she asked, listening for his receding footsteps.

"How foolish of you to think that would help you," he replied serenely, and she could hear the underlying threat in his voice.

 _No lock can keep me away._


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I'm extremely grateful for all your reviews, I can't believe this story's gotten over 100! Thank you. I would like to mention that this story is also inspired by the film Stoker, which I absolutely recommend._ _As always, darker things are ahead._

* * *

 **Six**

* * *

She woke up every morning to his whistling. He would walk around the house at the crack of dawn, humming a strange and sonorous tune. Jean found it romantic and bohemian. Hermione found it obnoxious and tiresome. She couldn't fall back asleep once she heard his voice. It was strong enough to get through her door, which she locked every single night.

When her mother had asked him what it was that he kept whistling, he had kissed her cheek softly and whispered, "an old _prelude_ ". The word, and all its devious connotations, made Jean think it was a mischievous joke. She laughed, and stopped asking.

Hermione, however, looked up the word "prelude". She found that it was a musical section, one which was usually played at the beginning of an opera or a symphony. It was meant to introduce the theme or subject. To let the audience know what they were getting themselves into. The prelude teased the action and eventually, the climax.

What was the subject Tom wanted to introduce?

She thought about this in the early mornings, when the whistled melody drifted up to her room and made her turn her weary eyes towards the ceiling.

 _Perhaps Tom is the subject_ , she thought drearily. _He is introducing himself._

There were many moments during the following weeks when she picked up the phone to call her father. One of those times, she even succeeded. But it was his new wife that answered. Hermione could hear a baby squalling in the background.

"This is not a great time, love," the woman explained regretfully. "Your father hasn't told you about the promotion, has he? He's joined a new division, and he's out of town for work at the weekends. I have to sit here, alone with the baby. It's not ideal. Maybe you could talk to him about that, actually."

Hermione ended the conversation quickly. She had enough problems at home. She did not want to have to take on another family's troubles.

Every night she lay beneath her comforter and stared at the small lock in her door. She watched the shadows whirl around it. They seemed to move with a special consistency, as if they were mocking her.

She expected him to turn into a fine powder and slip through the small hole. She expected to see the key turn and the door part slowly and soundlessly.

But it did not. Not yet.

"Hermione." Her name always sounded too long and obscene coming from his mouth. He always made sure to draw out each syllable. Her – _mine_ – eee….

"It's time to get ready for school," he blithely announced, standing outside her locked door.

Hermione put her head under her pillow and tried to drown out his voice.

* * *

The school librarian thought Hermione Granger was an excellent sort of girl with a lot of potential and impeccable manners, but she found it a little strange when she read the request on her slip.

"You want to listen to _all_ the classical records and tapes the school owns?" she said, pushing her glasses up her long nose.

"Yes, Ms. Pince," Hermione replied politely. "I'd like to start alphabetically, of course. And I only need to listen to the preludes."

"You _need_ to?" the woman inquired suspiciously. "Has a teacher assigned this task to you?"

"No, but I would very much like to improve my musical knowledge," Hermione explained in a matter-of-fact way. As if it all made perfect sense, actually.

Irma Pince still found it very queer. The girl was known to have a taste for science and serious reading. Not…music. But she couldn't deny her request.

"Very well. You must be very careful with the headphones. Here, let me show you."

* * *

Hermione felt as if someone had pushed her head beneath the cold surface of a lake. She was submerged into the sound of violins and clarinets, instruments which did not care about her, about her life, about her sorrows. She was very small and unimportant, compared to that music. The giant headphones pressed down on her scalp like a torture instrument. They seemed to pour the frozen scales inside her skull; all those A flats and D sharps and B minors. They melted inside the membrane of her brain and became strange figures, dancing slowly in the dark.

Still, she could not recognize the morning prelude.

* * *

As she walked down the steps towards the bus stop, she thought she saw his face. But that couldn't be right. He wouldn't dare –

Yet, there was _Tom_ , standing next to his polished car, waving an arm in her direction.

Some of her classmates started whispering as they walked past her.

Hermione's cheeks turned a rather unflattering shade of red. She inhaled sharply and marched towards the car, not bothering to hide her anger.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too, my dear. I thought it's only right I drove you home. Public transportation must be _ghastly_."

Anyone listening to him might have taken his remarks for granted – what a doting parent – but she knew nothing good could come out of it.

"I don't mind," she replied briskly. "The bus suits me fine."

"Absolutely not. No daughter of mine shall suffer that discomfort," he argued charmingly. "Now, get inside."

It wasn't a request or a question, but it did not sound like a command either. It sounded like a challenge.

 _See what happens if you don't._

Hermione glanced at the leather interior. She had seen the vehicle a few times when he had driven Jean on their dates, but she had never gotten a closer look. It seemed like the type of car an older man would drive, something Italian and sophisticated. Then again, age did not matter. Tom had a timeless quality about him.

Still, how could he afford it when all he did was sell books?

She noticed that the backseat was conveniently occupied by a few large packages.

"Does Mum know you came to pick me up?" she asked, gripping her schoolbag until her knuckles turned white.

"Oh, it was her idea, actually."

"I'm sure _you_ gave it to her," Hermione retorted before she could help herself.

Tom chuckled, a few strands of dark hair falling into his eyes. She could hear muffled giggles behind her. A group of girls from her year was dashing past the car, casting furtive glances at the handsome stranger. Hermione wished she could be one of them. They did not see the horror behind that alluring smile. They only saw a gorgeous older man who owned an expensive car and wanted to drive her around. A splendid fantasy.

"It seems we have an audience," he commented, thoroughly pleased.

Hermione huffed and pulled the passenger door open. She plopped down in the seat, barricading herself behind her schoolbag, and keeping her eyes on the window and the view outside.

She heard Tom settle in beside her.

He started the engine and shifted gears abruptly. Hermione moved her knees away.

She cast a quick glance at his hands on the steering wheel. They looked so bloodless and so fine, not at all like hands that could choke or squeeze the life out of someone.

But she remembered how hard those hands had pulled her hair and she did not doubt their prowess. She turned her eyes back to the shapeless trees they passed on the road.

He drove with calm and diligent attention. He did not look in her direction. He kept his eyes on the road. But there was something in the way he steered the car, in the way he swerved away from the half-torn carcasses of dogs and squirrels, and in the way he slowed down during a sharp bend that made her toes curl inside her shoes. All of these actions felt deliberate, like an insidious little melody that gets under your skin and doesn't let you go back to sleep.

"How was school?" he asked at length, and the question sounded so _ordinary_ she almost laughed.

"All right," she answered crisply.

"You were later than usual."

"How would you know?"

"I happen to know. Were you doing extracurricular work?" he asked, letting the car drift gently against another sharp bend.

 _I was listening to music_ , she thought, hating how much he was a part of her life now.

"Science project," she mumbled, deciding to humour him.

"Still bothering with that grant, are you?"

She almost asked him how he knew again, but what would be the point? Tom seemed to know everything, even things Jean did not.

"I don't think I will get it now," she said, more scornfully than intended, because in the back of her mind, she blamed him for her recent lack of enthusiasm.

"Not with that attitude, you won't," he replied cheerily. "You must think better of yourself, Hermione. You are a very bright and promising girl. There is no one more deserving of a grant."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Why are you talking like that?"

Tom flashed her a brilliant smile. "Like what, my dear?"

"Like you're in a play."

He laughed a short and cold laugh. "Aren't we always in a play, performing our given parts?"

He shifted gears again and she could feel the _volume_ of his hand, its mere physical potential, very close to her knees.

"No. Just you," she said, ducking her head low and looking at the road again.

"Do you find my performance satisfactory, then?"

She bit the inside of her cheek. "You are a good actor, if that's what you mean."

She could see her house – _their_ house now – coming up the lane. She breathed easier. Tom came to a slow stop before they reached the front door.

"Good acting takes a lot of effort, you know," he spoke quietly.

Hermione stared down at the bulk of her schoolbag. She wanted to fly out of the car and run inside the house, but he would only be a few steps behind her.

"Funny, you make it seem effortless," she quipped bitterly.

"Is that what you think?" All mirth was gone from his voice now. This new, serious tone forced her to turn her head and meet his sharp eyes.

"If it's hard pretending, then _don't_ ," she said, trembling a little. She felt that the words she was uttering were spoken by someone else - a different, more courageous Hermione. "Stop pretending and show Mum who you really are."

Tom surveyed her in silence for a few moments. And then he laughed, a pure sound, like bells in winter.

It made her flinch.

"Oh, my dear. But I do. I show her every day. That's the beauty of it."

* * *

That night, she heard her mother moan for the first time.

Hermione did not doubt that Jean and Tom had regular intercourse in her parents' old bedroom. But her mum always made sure not to be heard. She had always been discreet about these things, even when Dad had used to live with them.

She had never been witness to her parents' ecstasy. Adult pleasure was supposed to be compartmentalized and hidden away.

Hermione heard a second, softer moan. A sound like begging.

Like you were on the brink of a precipice and you were _begging_ not to be pushed in.

She clutched at her comforter in anger and fear and a strange, delirious _excitement_. This was something she _shouldn't_ hear, but she heard it all the same.

She locked her thighs together and closed her eyes. There was a steady vibration all around her. As if the room were shaking.

She gripped the side of the bed and hoped it would soon stop.

Her mother moaned a third and final time.

* * *

In the morning, he was whistling his prelude with renewed vigour.

Hermione came down for breakfast to find that her mother was absent.

"The poor thing is still lying in bed. She's had quite a night," Tom said, pouring the pancake batter into the pan. "I told her to take her time."

Hermione stood in the hallway, undecided. "I'm not hungry."

"Well, _Jean_ is quite ravenous. Physical exertion does take its toll on a woman."

Her face crumpled into a disgusted grimace. "I don't need to know about that."

"About what?" he asked innocently.

Hermione waved her hand angrily. "About your stupid love-making."

Tom paused, scraping a fluffy pancake from the pan. "Love-making. What a queer word. Would you like to help me make her breakfast?"

The sudden change in conversation confused her, as did the invitation.

"You can carry the tray up to her room, if you like," he offered benevolently.

She tried to remember his hands in her hair, the violence in his fingers. It was so easy to forget that side of him sometimes.

She wordlessly walked to the fridge and took out some eggs.

"Good idea," he said, as he watched her break them in a bowl.

They prepared the rest of the breakfast in silence, accompanied only by the sounds of frying and stirring. It was…deceptively peaceful.

She found herself relaxing against her will. It was Sunday morning, and she was making her mother breakfast. Nothing could be quainter.

She watched Tom rinse a handful of strawberries. He cut into their red flesh with perfect dexterity and spread the slices on the pancakes. Hermione felt her mouth water.

"Are you sure you do not want a piece?" he asked.

Hermione quickly shook her head. "No. Here, I'll cut up the rest."

And she reached for the strawberries, unwilling to watch him any longer.

She sliced the carmine fruit into clumsy shapes, but she felt a strange satisfaction in knowing she would not eat them.

And then he was behind her and his hand was pressing down on the knife in her hand.

"Like this."

He guided her fingers against the blade, up and down. The sticky pink juice poured down their joined hands.

Hermione stared at their fingers. She wanted to pull her hand away, but she enjoyed the feeling of the knife under her palm. She felt in control, with a weapon in her grasp. Any moment now, she could turn around and sink the knife into his -

 _No_ , she thought, horrified at her own instinct. _No_.

"Do you think it was _love_ -making?" he asked softly into her hair.

"What?"

"What your mother and I did."

"I – I don't know. What else would you call it?"

Tom laughed, rubbing his thumb against her fingers. "Do you think I _enjoy_ your mother's lacklustre body and feeble mind? _Why_ do you think I put up with it?"

Hermione felt choked by the dreadful implication in his words.

"My mother is not stupid," she interjected, cursing the way his thumb rubbed slow circles against her hand, spreading the sticky juice between them, making her shiver.

"She does not see me like you see me, my clever daughter," he murmured, applying pressure to her hand, until she could feel the blade's sharp sting pierce her skin. "You _see_ me."

She saw the warm blood trickling down her fingers.

"I wish I didn't," she rasped.

They stayed like that for a short eternity, watching the blood fall on the strawberries.

At length, Tom removed his hand. "You've cut yourself, my dear."

Without warning, he raised her palm to his mouth. He pressed his lips to the broken skin and ran his tongue over the gash. Hermione gasped. The contact was so stark and absolute that she did not have the strength to jerk her hand away. The feel of his tongue against that small opening was too much to bear. It was heady and terrifying. She parted her lips. She felt she could taste the blood too.

Tom lapped and sucked at her skin, running his tongue in slow circles against her palm. Her body seemed to lift up towards him. She found she was standing on her toes. She closed her eyes and released a sigh. She loathed this feeling, whatever it was. She wanted to chase it…chase it and kill it.

When he returned her hand to her, she let it drop like a corpse. She did not want to see it or feel it. She wanted to pretend it had been cut off.

"Now, then. Your mother must be wanting her breakfast."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: so, I'm quite overwhelmed by the positive response so far, thank you! I know this chapter is a bit short, but that's because I had to split a longer chapter in two for dramatic effect. Which means next chapter should come a bit sooner. Anyway, please enjoy._

* * *

 **Seven**

* * *

Hermione stared at the lines of her palm, all caked in blood. They looked like a wounded tree. This is what happens when you cut yourself. The blood does not spread uniformly on the skin; it finds ridges and furrows in which to deposit its hemoglobin. She had studied hemoglobin at school. Most of the drawings looked like confetti spirals dancing together. Oxygen and protein, bound by an inextricable law.

She should have washed her hand, but she couldn't help wanting to keep the blood alive a moment longer. She brought the palm close to her nose and she sniffed once. It smelled salty and earthy, like coal dug out of the mine. She could smell him. His tongue had left a faint trail, where the blood was pinker. She licked her lips. There was no sight more terrible than your own slow dissolution. The feeling that you were coming undone and you could do nothing to stop it.

Hermione clenched her teeth until her gums started to hurt.

She would not succumb.

He would bleed too.

* * *

She didn't use to listen to much music. She had never found it compelling before. Not the stuff they showed on TV anyway. But music changed when you listened to it privately, when you were insulated from the world. The sounds were sifted and the impurities were cast away. What remained was a smooth layer of glass, the most perfect glass in the world. She could _see_ the music inside the glass. Indeed, that was the point; you began with hearing and eventually, all your senses were engaged.

There was discomfort too. The headphones made her ears sting. Her lobes were constantly red and burning. There was a steady ringing in her head now, and it went up and down, like keys on a scale.

But she was determined to find Tom's prelude.

And one morning, she did.

The moment she heard the melody, she emitted a shout of victory – victory or anguish, she couldn't tell - and Ms. Pince had to come and see if she was all right.

"My dear, it's only Wagner," the sensible librarian told her.

* * *

Tom was awakened by the thrumming sounds of a battle. He rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. It felt as if the walls were closing in. But no, it was just the peals of a loud orchestra.

He stretched his hand out towards Jean, but her side of the bed was empty. He remembered now. She had left for an early shift. He was glad not to have woken up to the translucent skin of her nape. How he hated that veiny varicose skin.

He took his dressing robe off the peg and walked out of the bedroom.

The sounds were even louder now, like a splash of freezing water on his face. He walked drowsily towards the landing. The music had concealed any other sound in the house. He took to the stairs carelessly, so he hardly noticed when his foot landed on something sharp. There was a sickening crunch beneath his toes. He groaned and staggered, falling against the wall. His foot was bleeding. He looked down and saw tiny shards of glass embedded in the carpet. He swore under his breath in disbelief, but what he felt was a strange, heady excitement at the thought that _she_ – what had she done?

He couldn't stop now. He climbed down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

The sounds were unbearably loud, testing his very forbearance. He resisted the urge to cover his ears.

But it _was_ his prelude. _Tristan und Isolde_. Bursting forth out of a cassette player stationed on the living room floor. There were five speakers connected to it, each not much bigger than a book, but all strong enough to turn a person deaf.

In the middle of this chaos was Hermione, sitting at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper.

She had a cup of tea and a piece of toast in front of her and she was perusing the articles with deliberate attention. Almost as if she did not notice the roaring orchestra around her.

He stared at her for a long time. His blood sloshed between his toes. She did not deign to look at him, although he could tell she knew he was there, watching her.

He ambled slowly to the cassette player, and pressed _STOP_.

When he returned to the kitchen, she had set the paper down and was looking out the window.

He walked up to the table and grabbed a dry piece of toast from the saucer.

Hermione stood stock-still, watching a bevy of birds fly south in formation.

"I could tell your mother, you know," he drawled, as if they had been talking all along.

Hermione drew her chair back and stood up.

"I don't think you will."

Tom raised a delicate eyebrow. "How are you so sure?"

She took one step away from the table and crossed her arms in defense. "What would you even tell her? That I put glass on the stairs? You've been telling her we get along so well. Why would I hurt you?"

Tom regarded her impassively.

"You have given me no reason to hurt you," she repeated plainly. Her voice was too soft for fear, too soft for boldness. "Have you?"

Tom parted his lips. The pain in his foot was like the sting of a bee.

What a glorious feeling.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

"No. Certainly not."

She was a terrible angel, his clever daughter. Innocent and deadly, like the seraphs who left heaven. His smile grew wider. His eyes were glazed with the sight of her.

"What do you think of Wagner, my dear?"

Hermione sniffed. "You should clean up the blood, Tom."

* * *

She was giggling hysterically, pressing the pillow to her mouth to muffle the sounds. She had cut him, she had hurt him. She had made a murderer bleed.

Stupid, foolish, dangerous.

But she had made him bleed.

She locked her knees.

* * *

Jean returned home from a strenuous night shift only to be greeted by a rude telephone call from Hermione's school.

"I'm sorry? What's happened?"

She blinked fast, not really understanding what she was being told. She was dead tired, could have fallen asleep where she stood actually, and it was a blessing to see Tom slip into the bedroom behind her and kiss her shoulder softly.

"What do you mean she – no, not Hermione, you've got it wrong, I'm sure," Jean said, letting her head fall against Tom's chest.

"What's wrong, love?" he muttered in her ear.

Jean pulled the phone down from her mouth. "These ninnies are telling me my daughter _stole_ something from the school library. Can you imagine that? Hermione, a thief? They must be out of their minds."

"What are they claiming she stole?"

Jean shrugged. "Some kind of tape? But that's tosh. She hardly ever listens to music."

"Where is she now?"

"At school, of course. Hang on," Jean said and went back to arguing with the form-mistress, who was absolutely _certain_ that "Miss Granger" had removed the object from school premises.

"Unbelievable," Jean muttered, seeing dark spots in front of her eyes. She was too tired for this nonsense. When everything was cleared up later, she would demand a lengthy letter of apology.

"Let me," Tom whispered softly, massaging the slope of her neck. "You look absolutely knackered. I'll fetch Hermione and talk with the teachers. I will sort everything out."

Jean could cry with happiness. "You absolute darling."

* * *

His foot still hurt when he stepped on hard ground. He had inspected his wound by the weak light of the bathroom. The scars were not very elegant. There were no fine lines, only scattered bite marks from a constellation of glass. He ground his jaw as the pain shot through his leg. It should have made him furious. But as he drove to the school, he felt incredible power. He pictured her on the stairs, kneeling down with a fist full of shards. He shut his eyes, picturing her nimble fingers as she slipped the cassette into her skirt pocket, bringing it home, just so she might play him his prelude.

Small acts of devilry.

Performed for him.

* * *

Hermione sat on the school steps with her books in her lap. She was in a state of numbed shock. When she had been called into the headmaster's office, she had expected detention and a strongly-worded admonition. "We do not tolerate petty acts of vandalism here" and the like.

But instead, she had been suspended for a week. Hermione had never been suspended in her life. She could not wrap her head around it. What would she tell her mother?

She had returned the cassette, but Ms. Pince had still expressed her bitter disappointment. "I always thought highly of you, Miss Granger. But this has altered my opinion indefinitely."

Peevishly, she thought that, had she stolen a stolid old atlas or an arithmetic book, she would have been punished less. But she had stolen _Tristan und Isolde_. It was almost obscene.

Beyond the shock of her dismissal, she felt that she did not feel very sorry. She understood that she had broken the rules, but for the first time in her life, there was no remorse. Not because she believed it was right to steal. But because she believed it was _right_ to fight against one's enemies. The history lessons always admired men of action. What about her? Could she act?

She was lost in her thoughts, circling the same crack in the pavement with her eyes, and she did not see him coming.

He loomed over her like a benevolent demon.

"I hear you have been very bad."

She looked up at him, her lips parted. His hands were in his pocket. Even his slouch was graceful. She hated his beauty more than ever.

"You would know," she muttered, gripping her books.

Tom raised a poised eyebrow. "There is something I fail to grasp, my dear. Why did you _steal_ it? You could have bought the cassette from a shop."

Hermione got up, brushing dust from her skirt.

"No, it wouldn't have been the same."

And to her great horror, he understood. She saw it in his sculpted features. He understood _perfectly_. His blue eyes shone like steel in the afternoon light.

"Come. I've brought the car round."

"I'd rather stay here awhile longer," she stated boldly. "I don't wish to go home."

He smiled. "Who said anything about _home_? Jean is resting. We won't bother her. No, we shall take a private drive, you and I."

Hermione squinted at him. The numbness was wearing off, to be replaced with the dread of his presence. She clenched her fist over her fresh scar.

"Where are we going?"

He chuckled. "Why would I spoil the surprise?"


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: I told you the next chapter would come sooner, since I'd already written a good chunk of it. Thank you so much for all your positive reviews, I'm humbled. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **Eight**

* * *

Hermione counted the lampposts, watching them fly by in flurry of black. Velocity made them appear like dark smudges against the grey sky. As if someone had smeared his thumb against the world. The trees, too, had a different consistency. Their barren branches shone like filigrees in the weak light of dusk. Nature seemed to hesitate between life and death.

She did not recognize any of the buildings they passed. She had never gone so far from her borough. It might've been a different country for all she knew. At first she wondered if he was just driving for driving's sake, but by the way he took his lefts and rights, he seemed to have a clear destination in mind.

They exchanged no words, mercifully. Any manner of dialogue would have betrayed her. She was afraid. For the first time in weeks, she was genuinely afraid. Yet, she had got in the car; that part seemed inevitable.

Was he going to kill her, then? Had he finally grown tired of her hostility? Had she run the gamut of her defiance? Perhaps he was driving them out of town to an obscure cabin in the woods where he could dispose of her body. How would he do it?

She glanced over her shoulder at the back seat. Was there a hanger there, or maybe a scarf? A knife, a rope? She could see nothing out of the ordinary.

Strange, how calm she was. _Terrified_ in an abstract way, but _perfectly_ cool on the outside. Shouldn't one be more afraid of death?

She wondered if the religions of the world had it right; if there was life after death. And should that life be real, would she prefer it to this one? Would death be a kindness?

She had never harbored suicidal thoughts, but she did not think one needed to be miserable in order to wish to _know_ what was on the other side. Perhaps the great number of men and women who jumped off bridges and ran into traffic cars simply wanted to know.

The air had grown colder with the advent of evening, and she realized all too late that she had left her warm coat in the vestiary at school. She only had on a light jacket, the school blouse and skirt, along with her worn stockings. Perfectly dressed for murder, she imagined.

The only thing that made her heart sink was her mother. She would be devastated to discover that the man she had invited into her home had stolen the final breath from her daughter's lips. Jean would probably blame herself for the tragedy. She would spiral into self-destructive habits. She would certainly get laid off too. And then, her father – her _real_ father – would return to take care of her. He would explain to his new wife that his old one needed his help in these trying times. He couldn't just abandon Jean after all their years together, she had to understand. Her mum and dad would reconnect again, united by their unbearable loss. They would come to love each other again, like they did in the old days, when they couldn't get their hands off each other. And finally, a year and a half after Hermione's death, they would make love again for the first time in years. He would divorce his younger wife, move back in with Jean. Soon enough, they'd have another baby. All would be well in the end.

"Here we are."

Tom's words snapped her out of the dream. She wondered if she was truly so morbid as to imagine a happy resolution to her death. When she looked up, she saw they had parked across from a red-bricked semi-detached. It looked just as plain and stolid as the rest of the houses on the block, except its environs were slightly wider, and so it seemed to be standing on the fringes of the lot. A small glen of shrubs and dwarfed trees outlined the back yard.

Tom motioned towards the house.

"Let's have a look inside, shall we?"

Hermione hugged her elbows to her chest as they crossed the street at a brisk pace. The cold was more exacting now. She could see the steam pouring from her mouth.

"You will catch your death in this weather, my dear," Tom said, and all of a sudden he was right next to her and he was pulling his coat to wrap it around her. Hermione could do little to get away, since one of his arms came down on her back firmly and held her in place. She was pressed against his chest, inhaling his expensive cologne as the warmth of his body and his fine garments enveloped her on all sides.

"I don't think you'd mind," she muttered darkly, hating how good it felt to stand near him.

They walked up the graveled path and stopped in front of the left door, the one whose owner's name had been recently scratched.

"Are you going to knock?" she asked petulantly. She very much wanted to be released from his grip and the sooner that would happen, the better.

He looked down at her with a devastating smirk. "Impatient, are we?"

She absently noticed that one of his locks curled forward across his temples instead of lying flat like the rest of his well-combed hair. It was like a rounded comma in the sentence of his handsomeness.

His hand sank in one of his pockets and produced a small key from within.

Hermione raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Do you own this place?"

He did not respond. Instead, he worked the key inside the keyhole, and after a few querulous tries, managed to pry the door open. It unfolded with a slight creak.

Inside, it was dark and musty. He pushed them both inside and closed the door behind him.

Hermione looked around disoriented. Everything seemed out of shape in this obscurity. She was suddenly blinded by a stringent light as Tom turned on the electricity.

"There. That's better."

Hermione gulped the light like air. The hallway seemed ordinary enough. There were many portraits on the wall of dogs and horses captured in various quaint poses. Whoever lived there must have had a fancy. There was also a lonely hat-stand that only held a grubby blue raincoat in its clutches. Next there was a small cupboard meant for shoes, but there was no pair on display. A curved flight of stairs led upstairs. Hermione saw dust moats floating above her head. They looked like small gnats, snuffing and swallowing each other in their flight. A choking atmosphere.

"Do you…do you live here?"

"Evidently no," he replied casually, walking further into the house.

She had suspected as much, but _someone_ must have lived here. They must have left recently too, because the rooms still had the faint echo of a lived life. There were few personal belongings lying around; the majority was made up of anonymous furniture that could have belonged to anyone. The living room on her right looked like an official dining hall in a public house. The small kitchen on the left was equally bereft of individuality. The only spot of color were the ubiquitous paintings of dogs and horses. She found more of them as she surveyed the rooms in silence.

"Why do you have a key if you do not live here?" she asked, catching Tom's figure climbing up the stairs.

He stopped mid-step and looked down at her.

"Why not?" he challenged.

"Are they a friend of yours?" she asked again, staring at the frayed wallpaper behind Tom's head.

"Who?"

"The owner, obviously."

"Must they be?"

"Stop avoiding my questions," she demanded sharply. "Tell me who they are."

"Well, I'm not in the habit of spoon-feeding. You must draw your own conclusions, my dear."

"The only conclusion I draw is that we are committing an infraction," she replied archly. She paused, "and that the owner must be very fond of animals."

Tom chuckled. "You noticed that, did you?"

"What are we doing here, Tom? Why did you bring me here?"

He shrugged, keeping a poised hand on the banister. "I thought you said you did not wish to go home. This is somewhere else."

"Yes, but…" she trailed off, not knowing what else to say. Then she thought better of it. "The owner has recently vacated, haven't they?"

"What makes you say that?" he asked, turning back to his task.

Hermione chewed on her lip. "It's fairly obvious."

"Well, then, we are not committing any…infractions," he drawled, and his figure disappeared from view as he reached the top of the stairs and turned a corner.

Hermione turned around on the spot, inhaling the musty scent of the house. She knew she was on the right track. The owner had departed in a hurry from the place, but why?

She walked through the living room again. The carpet had an almost humid quality to it. As if every step was sinking in water. She stared at the empty fire-place. A sharp poker was stuck in a rod by the mantelpiece. She picked it up gingerly. It was heavy. She felt its weight on her fingers. One could do a lot of damage with just one swing.

She looked up. Above the mantelpiece there was a painting of a dog. A proud Basset Hound, sitting upright in the snow, waiting diligently for its master. Its nose was pointed at the falling snowflakes. Behind him there was a small wooden fence and on that fence someone had slung two dead rabbits. Hermione suppressed a shudder. It looked like a scene from a hunt. A hunt with dogs and guns and angry men.

She stepped back, still holding the poker in her hand.

"Tom?"

There was no answer from above.

Picking her way carefully between the furniture, she followed him up the stairs. The floors creaked under her feet as she stopped on the landing. The door at the end of the hall was thrown ajar. She could hear Tom tinkering with something inside.

She took a few reluctant steps forward. The poker was soaked in the sweat of her palm.

Her thoughts bifurcated sharply. On the one hand, there was her fear: a warning inside her head that she should turn back and not go any farther. On the other hand, there was her impulse, foreign and tempting: kill him.

 _Kill him._

It did not seem real. The act of killing. _She_ had certainly never associated with it. It felt like an alien intrusion from above; as if someone had planted the thought in her head by artificial means.

It was, in theory, possible.

She could pierce him through his stomach with the sharp end of the poker and that would be his final moment. Alternately, she could swing it against the back of his skull once or twice and he'd be done for.

Hermione shivered with a sense of wild and terrible excitement. There was so much power wrapped around her hand. She almost felt like turning the poker against herself. To feel how painful it would be.

But she walked on.

* * *

He was standing by a chest of drawers, weighing jewelry in the palm of his hand.

Hermione approached quietly from behind.

"If you intend to use _that_ , you had better be quick about it." His tone betrayed no alarm, which only incensed her more.

"I could do it." She raised the poker in the air.

Tom casually slid a pair of earrings into his pocket. "I am sure you think so. Everyone thinks violence is easy."

Hermione paused, taking the room in. Everything suggested it had been a bedroom, but just like the rooms below, it had been stripped of its personal touch. The mattress was bare, covered only by an ugly brown afghan. The bedside table was grey with dust, a forgotten candy wrapper abandoned on its surface. The mirror was dotted with speckles of rust. In its reflection, she could see Tom's hands fingering a silver bracelet.

"Where did _that_ come from?" she asked, her voice less certain than before.

"These?" he asked lightly, showing her a black case filled with precious stones. "Old trinkets of mine."

" _Yours_? But you said this isn't your house."

"That is correct. But I deposit them here sometimes."

Hermione frowned. "I almost thought you were pilfering."

"High praise from a fellow thief," he teased, winking at her.

"I'm not a –" but she stopped short, because that wasn't true. Not exactly. She licked her lips quickly. She wasn't going to be distracted. "Those paintings. The owner would not have left them behind."

"Hmm?" Tom inquired absently.

"Whoever they were, they valued them. A _lot_. I mean they're everywhere. There's even one above the mantelpiece. I'm sure the owner wouldn't have abandoned them. He or she did not leave here willingly."

Tom hummed under his breath. "Not a bad theory."

Hermione stepped forward. "It was a _she_ , wasn't it? The owner? And you killed her."

Tom closed the drawer shut. "Now… that is an interesting accusation."

He turned towards her, but he wasn't allowed to take a step further. Hermione raised the poker to his chest.

"How many have you killed?"

There was a strange light in his eyes. "How _many_? Am I that prolific?"

"Yes. I know there must be a string of victims in your wake."

Tom smiled. "Really, Hermione, that wild imagination of yours is at play again."

"Don't patronize me! I know you're a killer. This is ample proof."

"This empty house, you mean? Where there's only you and me?"

Hermione swallowed thickly. "I have the upper hand."

Tom looked down at the sharp edge of the poker. "So it would seem. Let's see what you're willing to do."

Hermione pressed the point against his shirt until it split the seams and touched his bare skin. Her breath quickened, but he remained unmoved. Still as a statue.

If she pushed a little further, what would he do? What would it take to unmoor him?

Did she dare?

She pressed forward and closed her eyes. The mistake was closing her eyes.

Never accept darkness.

He wrapped his fingers around the cool metal and pulled it and _her_ towards him.

When she opened her eyes, the poker was lying prostrate between their chests and one of his hands was gripping the side of her neck. He could feel her erratic pulse in the palm of his hand.

"I told you violence is not easy," he murmured, watching her behind half-lidded eyes. "If it were, everyone would partake. Blood would overflow the streets."

Hermione tried to wrench away, but his grasp was as iron as the poker.

"But violence takes its toll. It takes something _from_ you. And sadly, very few are willing to give," he continued steadily, not relenting his hold. "That is how the world survives. Through cowardice."

She groaned in frustration and twisted her arm until it throbbed.

The only thing she achieved was letting the poker fall with a thud on the floor. Her weapon, rendered useless.

Rage overcame her.

"Let me guess, this – your _crime_ – is meant to be courage," she spat, feeling her whole body ache with adrenaline.

"No, not courage. Honesty."

 _Honesty._

Hermione blinked. Her hands were bound, but her mouth was free. Free to hurt him. She angled her head and bit down on his wrist.

Tom gasped.

She tasted his skin briefly before she felt him pull away. Only a fraction, but it was enough.

This was her chance, her only chance.

She bolted straight for the door. But he was quick too, his reflexes well-oiled by many such chases. He caught her in the corridor and he shoved her into the wall before she had time to turn around and launch an attack.

Hermione's cheek was pressed against the dirty wallpaper. He stood over her, his words delivered directly into her ear, sending shocks down her spine.

"You see, that was honest. You wanted to bite me. So you did."

She gritted her teeth. "I didn't _want_ to."

His breath in her hair made her tremble.

"My clever girl, if I am honest, you must be honest too."

One of his hands reached down and with a boldness that was almost territorial, he grazed her waist, bunching up her blouse in his fist, as his fingers dipped below the strap of her skirt. Hermione's breath hitched in her throat. He found the zipper easily and pulled, letting the material glide down her legs. Her skirt fell around her ankles like a corpse. She was exposed in a way that occluded her fighting instincts.

"These stockings simply won't do," he chastised huskily, as he hooked his thumb in their hem and pulled them down slowly. His touch was feather-like but with a sharp sting that left red marks on her skin. His fingers plunged deep within the maddening warmth between her thighs and cupped her mound with such brutal claim she almost groaned. Her whole body quivered as his fingers brushed against her sensitive flesh. This wasn't like last time, at the cinema, when he had tentatively brushed his thumb against her. He was taking ownership now, his long deft fingers running down her slit as if this opening was there for him alone. Her hips twitched along with his movements as his forefinger parted her lips and flicked against her clit. Hermione spiraled. She had never felt like this before. She had never been touched like that – like there was something deeper inside her that needed to be unraveled.

She couldn't help leaning back against his chest to give him more access.

"Tell me you don't like this," he spoke against her throat.

"I d-don't –"

He teased her folds with expert cruelty, flicking and stroking her clit, dissolving her words into feverish whispers.

"Don't tell your darling father lies," he hummed into her shoulder, plunging a finger inside of her, slowly, almost testing her endurance.

Hermione keened and whimpered against his touch. She could hardly bear it, this sensation of absolute pleasure that seemed to ignore common sense and decency.

She didn't even notice he had released her hands. It hardly mattered. She couldn't have run away. He was holding her hips down, which only served to enhance the terrifying sensation building in the pit of her stomach. He was pressed up against her, warm and mean and dangerous, his breath tickling the back of her neck.

"I told you… we must be honest to each other," he spoke, and his voice was choked with a need of his own, a need she almost recognized. She felt something hard against her back which stirred a terrible instinct inside her.

"Tom…" she exhaled as his fingers swiped against her core faster and faster and the friction became a pulsing white fire. His own hips moved in time with hers.

"Tom!" the urgency in her voice was a supplication.

She wanted him to stop, but the only way to stop was to end it, to end this delicious pressure inside her skin. How would this end?

"Come for me, sweetheart," he mumbled feverishly into her ear. "Let me feel you clench around my fingers."

Hermione shook her head. She needed to hold onto something or she would obey him. She reached out behind her and clutched at his shirt, but her hand slipped. She fumbled hopelessly until she took hold of his tie. It didn't slip.

She pulled on it to anchor herself. _Hard_. Until the knot grew smaller and smaller. Until it cut off his air.

She remembered her reading well.

 _The Tie – much like the necklace, it is excellent for surprise asphyxiations. It requires the victim's trust and abandon, but there must also be great determination from the asphyxiator. The best position is achieved by angling oneself in front of one's victim, and pulling the tie over one's shoulder for maximum effect. The weight of the grip is amplified and the victim is rendered blind from lack of oxygen very quickly._

Tom Riddle saw stars.

She was pulling on his tie for dear life, choking him slowly while she came apart around his fingers.

Ecstasy overwhelmed him as his hips jerked forward and he lost control of his senses.

" _Fuck_ \- !" he emitted in a low rasp, her name falling from his lips like a prayer.

Hermione screamed and went still as the waves took her to sea.

" _Tom!"_

He slammed one of his hands against the wall and groaned as the waters washed over him.

This was the true art of asphyxia.

* * *

They both came up for air _hours_ later, it seemed, drenched in their own seat, wide-eyed and dangerous.

He took a step back from her, unlatching his tie. Hermione sank to the floor, holding her knees to her chest.

He glanced above her head and gave a strangled laugh. On the wall there was a painting of a horse running wild across the plains.

"Why did you really bring me here, Tom?" she asked shakily as she drew her stockings around her knees.

He plunged his hand into his pocket and produced a key, different from the one before.

"This is the key your mother gave me to her house."

And suddenly, she understood.

She was not here to witness the past. She was standing in the house of the future. The owner had given him the key. This is what would happen to Jean, unless –

Her mind went no further than that. She ran a hand through her wild locks, wet from exertion.

Her skin felt dirty. Her whole body felt uninvited. But she could not bring herself to regret the pleasure of that one blinding moment, when nothing mattered. Not yet.

"We – we should get back."

Tom smiled.

"I'm glad we were both honest," he said, fixing his tie.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Merry Christmas! I hope this comes as a pleasant gift for the holidays. Beware of some dark, messy content ahead. As always, thank you for your lovely reviews! Please let me know how you like the new chapter._

* * *

 **Nine**

* * *

For days afterwards, she couldn't stop looking at his fingers. The way they tapped impatiently against the kitchen table, the way they caressed her mother's back, the way they traced dust from hidden nooks in the living room. Those fingers had been inside her, or at least as inside as one was ever going to get. He had made her come on those fingers. She had shattered around his claws.

The memory was like acid running down her throat and she was unable to swallow or spit it out. But this time, at least, there were no illusions. She could no longer say she was only innocent prey. She had, in the throngs of pleasure, returned the favor. She had conspired with him to reach their release.

She had touched and been touched.

She sat up in bed at night and revisited each and every gutted sound he had made against her hair, the violent and vulgar " _Fuck_ -!" she had wrenched from him, the way she had made him lose control. It was a small victory, but she felt it as such.

That was the trouble with Tom. She knew by now what and who he was. He was a beast dressed as a man. And yet, she wanted to slay the beast. It wasn't enough for him to be removed from their lives. She wanted to – to punish him. To _break_ him.

Just as much as he wanted to break her.

Why did he set off this violent reaction inside of her? Why did he make her want to inflict pain?

She sat next to her mother at breakfast and looked across the table at Tom smearing jam across toast and she fantasized about cutting off his fingers; the fingers which had been inside her.

She imagined they'd fall like pebbles into her hand and she'd squeeze them until they turned purple and she'd hide them under her pillow.

Sometimes, her stares got so intense that Tom had to clear his throat to wake her from her trance. Even Jean was starting to notice.

In fact, her mother was more than a little worried. Hermione had never been suspended before. And she had never indulged in petty theft, either. The fact that she had managed to do both in the span of a week was troublesome.

She had a talk with her daughter the evening before she returned to school.

"Is the workload too much, darling? I sometimes think you push yourself too hard," Jean said, rubbing comforting circles against her back.

Hermione leant into her mother's touch with a sense of discomfort. She wanted to reciprocate the affection and bury her head in her shoulder, but her body was no longer a child's body, belonging solely to Jean Granger. No, this body had been marked and spoiled and remade. She crossed her legs restlessly.

"Actually, it's the opposite. I need to work harder. I've been distracted," Hermione murmured, staring at the wall in front of her, wishing she were anywhere else.

"Distractions can be good, if you can get ahead of them. You didn't tell me you'd started listening to classical music. If I'd known, I would've bought you cassettes and records and you wouldn't have had to take one from school."

"I… I know, that was really daft of me, Mum. I'm really sorry."

Jean smiled, pulling her daughter close. "It's all right. Mistakes are important too. Without them, we wouldn't grow up. I just wish we could talk more, about your likes and dislikes, your dreams and goals. You're becoming a young woman and I want to get to know you. I don't know if I can help you figure things out, but at least I can listen."

"You _do_ know me, Mum. Better than anyone. It's just…a difficult time for me, with all these changes," Hermione replied vaguely. She'd read that adolescence was a notoriously difficult time in a young person's life and it was equally demanding on the parents. She was ready to serve her mother this convenient narrative as long as she did not pry any further.

"However much you decide to change or not, you know I'll still love you, don't you?" her mum said, kissing the top of her head. "Whether you decide to join an orchestra or quit school or –"

Hermione chuckled wryly. "You would be appalled if I quit school. And so would I."

Jean smiled in relief. "Oh, good!"

Hermione wished matters were as simple as this.

She had no idea when she'd become this secretive around Jean, but one thing was clear; Hermione had to protect her mother from the truth. Gone were the days when she could have carefully unfolded her fiancé's character to her. Hermione didn't have much in the way of proof that he had murdered other women, and she was hard-pressed to tell her mum about her and Tom's recent dalliances. What she had to do was skirt around the issue and make sure Jean never got hurt. She would never allow for her mother to become just another victim in his book; just another empty apartment, just another stolen key.

"You know, Tom was saying we should all go on a trip soon. Get out of the city, have a change of scenery. He said it might do us some good. It's not a bad idea, is it? The holidays are coming up anyway. What do you think?"

Hermione's smile was a twisted grimace. As always, Tom thought of everything.

* * *

The winter holidays did not come with snow, but with a lot of rain instead. Jean struggled under her rather ungainly raincoat as she carried her small luggage to Tom's car. Ever the gentleman, Tom came forward and, though he himself was carrying two heavy boxes, took the burden from her hand with a roguish smile. He was not wearing anything against the downpour and his tailored suit was getting soaked. Hermione could see the white shirt sticking to his skin and the beads of water falling down his neck. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead in a violent fashion. He looked wild and dashing, like a Heathcliff on the moors.

 _How odious._

Hermione sulked on the sidewalk with her trunk in tow, refusing to help him or look at him more than was necessary. She pulled the raincoat over her face, trying to block the outside world.

Maybe if she pretended she was alone, they would eventually leave without her.

"Mione, dear, why are you standing there like a statue?" Jean asked, opening the car door.

Before she could reply, Tom called out her name. "Hermione, mind giving me a hand with your luggage?"

He was standing by the car boot, waiting expectantly for her assistance.

Hermione glowered at him. He'd had no problem helping her mum, but suddenly he wanted her to carry her own trunk? Well, tough luck.

She stood where she was. "Sorry, it's too heavy."

Tom stared at her for a moment that seemed to last a small eternity, before he sauntered towards her with measured steps.

Hermione forced herself to stand tall, even if the rain was getting in her eyes.

Tom's eyes flashed a dark blue as he stopped in front of her and bent down slowly to retrieve her luggage.

Hermione's heart raced a little at the image of him almost kneeling in front of her. It was not entirely pleasant to imagine him supplicant before her. She almost wanted to reach forward and sink her hand in his wet locks and pull at the roots until he screamed.

He raised himself smoothly and, one hand wrapped around her trunk, he leaned forward and whispered softly against her cheek,

"Someone's feeling naughty today."

Hermione parted her lips, and quickly looked away, ashamed of the sudden warmth in her cheeks.

Tom carried the luggage to the car, his fingers carving small indentations in the worn leather of her trunk. Hermione watched those fingers until Jean hollered at her from inside the car.

"Get in or you'll catch your death!"

She remembered that Tom had said the same thing to her when they had travelled to the empty apartment. She clenched her teeth and dragged her reluctant feet towards the car.

Inside, it was warm and cosy. It smelled of pine and smoke and expensive cologne. She had been in his car before, but never from this vantage point. She sat in the back next to a few packages. From the look of them, they probably carried books. She might have been curious to look through them if she did not know what kind of ghastly literature Tom specialized in. She watched her mother and him as they held hands while he drove out of their street. Hermione stared at her family home receding in the back window.

She almost gave a startled shriek when she heard the music.

The notes burst out of the cassette player with no warning and no preamble.

It was Wagner's _Tristan und Isolde_. She recognized it instantly. She remembered each key, each stroke. Each pause when the orchestra held its breath.

Hermione opened her mouth, but her throat was too dry for words. She met Tom's eyes in the rear-view mirror but he appeared perfectly unmoved by the music.

It was her mother who turned her head over her shoulder and gave her a shy, apologetic smile. "It was my idea, darling. I hope you don't mind. I bought the whole opera for you. I thought you might enjoy it if we played it in the car."

Hermione could do nothing but nod her head in silent agreement. She was too astonished to protest.

Tom could not help a small smirk, as he turned the music louder. "What an excellent idea, Jean."

Their eyes met once more in the rear-view mirror and Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine and sink into the asphalt below, because there was _nothing_ in that look. His gaze was innocuous, and that serenity was completely honest. He looked peaceful precisely _because_ she was being tormented.

This was his genius; to have others do his bidding, without them even realizing.

Hermione gritted her teeth and gave them both a tight smile. "Thanks, Mum."

* * *

They stopped for fuel at a petrol station along the road.

Hermione could see the snowy caps and the serpentine mountain ridge coiling against the horizon. She felt an almost nostalgic twinge when she thought of similar trips taken with her father, when they were still a family. Her dad had loved hiking and exploring the northern parts of England. She still remembered the magical summer spent in the Lake District, though at the time, she had been buried in her books rather than taken note of the scenery. She regretted that now.

"Do you want anything from the shop?" she asked her mother obligingly. She really wanted to get out of the car for a while. Tom was handling the petrol pump.

"Just a water and a sandwich would be divine, love. Here you go, get yourself something nice."

"Got it," she muttered, taking the proffered bills from her mother.

Hermione slammed the door behind her. She did not look to see what Tom was doing, or if he was looking at her.

The rain had let up, but the air was clogged with steam and mist. It was strangely warm, as if this were a last respite before the freezing cold.

There were other customers in the shop, but they all looked sleepy and distracted, as if the fog had affected their senses. She hurriedly scrounged up the purchases for her and her mother (she had pointedly _not_ asked Tom if he wanted anything) and made for the cash register.

She saw Tom from the corner of her eye. He had entered the shop, presumably to pay for the fuel.

"Could you hurry up, please?" she asked the man behind the counter. He gave her a finicky look, as if wondering if she might be planning on stealing anything. Hermione scowled back at him.

"What's the rush, my dear?" Tom's voice pricked the back of her neck. He had arrived at the spot next to her.

"Mum's hungry. Not to mention, I don't like being around you," she replied tartly. Her confidence was spurred by their being in public. There were people around her. She could throw barbs at him and he could do nothing about it.

Tom smiled a wide smile, but she could see the muscles in his face twitch with a coarse, inelegant ferocity. The beast wanted to snarl and bite.

"I'm sure we can fix that, darling."

"No, I'm afraid we can't. Seeing as I despise you."

It felt liberating to spit out these words where everyone could hear them. The shop assistant was throwing them some very odd looks.

Tom exhaled softly and turned towards him with a rueful expression. "It never gets easy with a teenage daughter, does it?"

A look of recognition flickered across the man's face and he smiled in understanding. "No, Sir, it does not."

"Mm, they're at an age where they hate you no matter what you do," Tom continued warmly, suffusing his voice with the tiredness of an overworked parent.

"Don't I know it," the shop assistant muttered, raising his eyebrows in amusement as he accepted Tom's cash.

Hermione bit her tongue in anger. "You're not my father."

Tom sighed, shoving one hand in his pocket and leaning against the counter. "A familiar refrain."

"Give her time, Sir. She'll come around," the shop assistant said, shaking his head in sympathy.

Hermione grabbed the shopping bag in rancour and walked towards the bathrooms. Her blood was boiling. She locked herself in a stall and opened her mouth. She let out a silent scream of rage. Her jaw hurt. She sank her nails inside her palm until red half-moons dotted her hands.

She almost threw the bag against the door, but she stopped herself in time. She counted each breath as it came. This unfettered anger was getting the better of her. After all, she was used to Tom's tricks. Why was she letting him affect her so much?

When she came out of the stall, Tom was slouched against the bathroom wall, watching her.

Hermione blinked. "This is the ladies'."

"Yes, well, I wouldn't say anyone here is a lady," he mused as she walked past him to the sinks.

"Someone could come in and see you," she gritted.

"That would be unfortunate. But life's a gamble, isn't it?"

Hermione gripped the sink's edge and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

"How did you know that man had a daughter?"

His faint smirk looked as if it had been drawn in ink.

"Clever girl, you should have looked behind him, where he kept a photo of her and his wife."

Hermione ran a hand through her bushy hair. Her eyes looked bloodshot.

"So, what do you want? No one's here to see you play father again."

They were interrupted by an older woman walking into the bathroom. She ogled at Tom for a few moments and was about to open her mouth and say something when he flashed her his most beatific smile and nudged his head towards Hermione.

"I'm just waiting for my daughter. One can't really trust these places, can one?"

The woman nodded blandly, although her eyes skimmed him with a smidgen of distrust. Tom Riddle was alluring, and most people found that intoxicating, but there were those whom beauty scared and terrified.

The woman retreated to an empty stall.

Tom's smile turned cruel.

Hermione opened her mouth, but he placed a finger to his lips.

"Shh."

She saw him in the mirror's reflection as he walked towards her with low, cat-like steps.

His hand snaked around her throat, tipping her chin up.

His head positioned against her shoulder, he pressed his lips to the pulsing vein below her ear.

Hermione's breath hitched in her throat.

"Shhh," he instructed against her warm skin. "She could hear us."

Hermione's heart raced. Anyone could come in. Anyone could see them. The woman might push open the stall and -

His lips ghosted over her throat, making her head swim. The bathroom was spinning around her. His hand was on her jaw. His thumb on her mouth, keeping her good and silent.

Those fingers, which had been inside her. She opened her mouth against his thumb, and her eyes beckoned something to him, something which he understood, without words. Brute honesty.

He dipped his thumb inside her mouth. She closed her mouth around him as she felt the salty sweet texture of his skin. Her tongue swept over his finger, tasting herself, tasting the memory of her against the wall. If she clamped down too hard, she could sever it. She could chop it clean off. She sank her teeth into his flesh. Tom's breath against her throat grew ragged. His grip on her jaw was hard enough to break bones. He was losing control slowly, watching her swallow his thumb, watching her devour it – and it was a rush to know she could carve his flesh and he would _let_ her. He could see his dark eyes in the mirror, and there was no blue in them anymore –

The stall pushed open with a clang.

Hermione blinked and spat the saliva in the sink. Tom was slouched against the wall, head lowered in thought, as if nothing had happened.

Hermione wiped her lips. She leant precariously against the sink.

"D'you mind?" the woman asked, shoving her way in front of her to wash her hands.

Hermione stepped back. Tom opened the bathroom door and she walked out blindly, almost dropping the shopping bag in the process.

"Careful," he whispered behind her, and as he grabbed the bag from her hand, she saw that his thumb was marked. A distinct mold of teeth against his skin.

She shuddered, appalled by her own appetite.

She remembered the red cut in the middle of her palm. He had licked her blood. She had consumed his flesh.

She was reminded of Catholic rites.

Wasn't that the ritual of Communion? Drink the blood, eat the flesh of the Lord.

Where had she read it? How did she know? Who had told her?

Hermione fished inside the bag for the bottle of water.

By the time they made it back to the car, she had drunk it all. Water was dribbling down her chin.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: I am sorry for the delayed chapter, but I had to study for exams, so I couldn't dedicate myself to writing. But thank you for all your support and your lovely and humbling reviews. I'm so thrilled this story still interests you._

* * *

 **Ten**

* * *

The holiday village was, at this time of the year, already packed with tourists. Tom and Jean had not chosen a particularly fashionable destination, but it was close to an array of popular tourist sights, and it was crawling with like-minded people who had thought to avoid the crowds by choosing a more obscure stop. Hermione was rather grateful for the mob. It gave her the sense that, should anything terrible happen, there would be lots of people to witness it.

The plan, as far as she understood it, was to get lodgings here and then drive up each day to see the rocks and the monuments and the tombstones, and whatever else there was to see in this part of the country.

The main street was already stacked with Christmas lights and holly and festive little flags. It looked a little tawdry, the colours a shade too loud, the decorations chintzy and tacked-on. But as she surveyed the glittering spectacle, she thought how much she would have enjoyed this kind of frivolous trip if Tom had been…well, not Tom. A different version of him. A man with the same dashing looks, but with an undamaged mind.

She did not know if she believed in souls, or even hearts, in the spiritual sense of the word. Whenever she heard someone say "she's got a good heart" she always wondered what exactly qualified that organ to impart goodness beyond biology. It was interesting; people rarely qualified souls. They usually said, "he doesn't have a soul" when they meant that the person was awful. But one rarely spoke of "good" or "bad" souls. A soul was the measure of one's humanity, so there had to be something inherently valuable about it.

No, the source of all evil was the mind, in the end. She was certain that there was something tucked away in Tom's brain, something dirty and sharp; something which routinely cut into the fat slices of his grey matter and injected the membrane with a foul serum. She could picture the operation in her head, could picture the liquid spreading through the cerebellum and Tom's mouth curling up in a satisfied grin as he woke every morning feeling more and more contaminated.

She felt a little contaminated too, sometimes. But Tom was sick. She was still resolutely sane.

They drove past the town park where a gaggle of children was sleighing down a short hill as their parents watched from the bottom, snapping their portable cameras. Both parties seemed rather bored with the activity since the hill was not steep and the snow was more sludge and mud than anything else. Still, we make do, as the English say.

She leaned her forehead against the window and saw two boys sitting under a tree in their winter coats, wrestling with a wax figurine of Father Christmas. They were trying to set it on fire.

* * *

Tom had booked rooms at the Grayling Inn in advance. It was a quaint faux-Georgian establishment with painted shutters and lopsided anchors attached to the outer walls. Inside the main hall there were glass-cased sketches and drawings of graylings, which Hermione learnt were a species of fish. Their Latin name was inscribed underneath each portraiture, faithfully, " _Thymallus thymallus"._ The letters were written in a wide, girlish hand which made her think of little girls in sunhats. How long had they been up there? She remembered, out of the blue, the horses and dogs that had bedecked the lonely apartment where Tom had taken her. Why did people cling to such things? What was the point of cluttering your life with paintings of animals, innocent creatures that you could never hope to understand? She stared at the grayling's chequered scales, which shone a mustard gold in the dim light.

There was no immediate body of water close to inn to warrant its piscatorial bent, but then again it did not need one. Modern life was all about being ingenious. Hermione sank unceremoniously into one of the straw-backed chairs in the lounge. The décor was stubbornly trying to keep up the fishing charade. She dumped the suitcase between her legs and stared out of the deck windows into the grey twilight and the twinkling Christmas lights. Jean and Tom were checking in at the front desk, and she left them to this unappealing task, not bothering to move or speak or even breathe. She just wanted to sit still.

Her position was slouched, her legs spread wide as if she were a sailor in the truest sense of the word. She was not trying to be indecent; she was simply tired of always hiding her body in shame. Young girls were like goblets of wine, always dreading to spill over. But she had already been blunted by a man's touch; she could sit now and not have to worry about her legs.

From time to time, she felt Tom's peevish gaze on the side of her neck. He must not be pleased with her sloppy manners. She almost smiled at the thought.

She suddenly heard her mother's voice, high and clipped, like a wing being cut short. " – I'll go ask her, I'm sure she'll say yes."

Hermione looked up in time to see Jean hovering over her chair.

"Sweetheart, Tom booked you a room on a different floor from ours, but –well, the Inn is rather _full_ , so they asked us kindly if you wouldn't rather free it up and stay with us? Tom reserved an apartment, so it's large enough for all of us."

Clever, _clever_ Tom.

Hermione couldn't help another rueful smile. Of course, he had made the necessary show of getting her a separate room; she could imagine him talking to her mother about it ("she's a proper young lady, she deserves her privacy") and then blithely booking it on a different floor, knowing full well what would happen.

Still, it had been a bit of a risk. The inn might have suffered a dry spell. She might have kept her separate room.

But Tom would have found another way to get in. He always did.

* * *

They shared a weighted look on the stairs.

They were carrying the unwieldy luggage up to _their_ room, a task that required a certain level of attention, which is why her mother was distracted. But even if Jean had been paying attention, it wouldn't have mattered.

It was getting easier and easier to let the mask fall away. Mainly because no one suspected there was a mask in the first place.

Tom glanced over his shoulder, and she craned her neck to look up. His eyes were like a magnet, drawing her in by force of their wickedness.

He was silently asking her if she had liked his ruse.

Hermione blinked a reply. _It was rather childish,_ she answered petulantly.

* * *

"I'm so tired, I could sleep for _days_ ," Jean moaned, dropping like a dumbbell on the goose-down pillow.

Tom scolded her affectionately. "My darling, we haven't come here to sleep. A holiday is a time for activity."

Jean smiled at that. "That is why I take one so rarely."

Hermione heard their innocent banter from across the hall. The apartment had a very queer design. She could understand now why Tom had picked Grayling Inn. For there were no _doors_ in the whole place, except for the bathroom. The living area, where her sofa-cum-bed had been set up, was separated only by a short corridor from Jean and Tom's proper bedroom.

She felt _exposed_ , and she imagined that was exactly what he wanted. Tom could walk in on her any time -whether she was in a state of undress or simply enjoying her privacy - and she couldn't say anything, because this was the only way to the bathroom.

Clever, clever Tom.

Hermione sat down on one of the plush recliner next to the coffee table. There was a variety of leaflets on the gleaming glass surface, a lot of them advertising the local Christmas fair, a new spa resort up in the mountains, and what looked like a pub quiz down in the village.

She surveyed them with little interest, hopelessly bored with the whole thing already. She snuck a look at the darkening sky in the porthole above her makeshift bed. Its narrow, oblong shape didn't give her the sense that she was on a ship. No, it made her think of being stuck in the eye of a bottle.

Soon enough, she heard her mother's light snoring coming from the hall.

Hermione clenched her fingers on her knees. She looked up to see Tom stroll in, hands in his pocket.

"Well, that was propitious," he announced jauntily.

She shot him a glare laced with suspicion.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, my dear, I did not _sedate_ your silly mother. I hardly need to. She is a weak creature in general."

"Don't _talk_ about her like that," she spat, her back growing perfectly stiff. "I know you have no ounce of respect for her, but keep your insults to yourself."

"Why?" he challenged, raising an eyebrow. He ambled to the television set and turned it on. He flipped through the channels absent-mindedly until he landed on the weather forecast.

Hermione guessed what he was doing. In the unlikely event that her mother woke up, she'd hear the telly first.

Clever, clever Tom.

"Why what?" she demanded, staring at the puffy clouds on the screen and the female presenter making wide hand gestures to indicate heavy winds.

"Why should I keep them to myself?"

She scowled. "Because they bother me. Because I love my mother. Because you're a foul git."

She wasn't sure she had ever plainly insulted him before. Tom did not seem to care or mind.

In fact, his smirk was almost rakish. "Oh, please. Don't let me stop you. _Do_ go on."

"And give you the satisfaction? I don't think so," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"Then pray tell me, what would satisfy you?"

She sneered at him. "A great number of things; all having to do with your early demise."

Tom issued a choked laugh, looking up at the ceiling. "Oh, my darling girl. You have no idea how much you tickle me. Shall I stick my finger down your throat again? Why, you almost _begged_ me to do it."

Hermione seized up at the memory. She forced herself not to look at his hand, not to check if her teeth marks were still there. God, she _hated_ how he managed to push her buttons so easily, with only a few sprinkled words. It was another one of his clever tricks; changing the subject at random, making her feel adrift.

Her thoughts could not help but circle around his words, like hamsters chasing their wheel.

Why had she opened her mouth? Why had she done it? What had possessed her?

 _I wanted to bite his fingers off._

 _Chew them._

 _Consume them._

A wave of nausea and something else - something _sweetly_ sick - overwhelmed her.

"You _won't_ get the better of me, not tonight," she managed at length, taking a deep breath and casting her eyes to the television set.

"You're quite right," he said briskly and bent forward gracefully, picking up a leaflet from the table. "Tonight we are busy. Tonight we are going to a pub quiz."

Hermione blinked at him, not sure she had heard him right. She momentarily forgot her grievance. "Excuse me?"

"A pub quiz," he repeated patiently. "Have you never been?"

She crossed her arms defensively. "No. I'm not allowed in pubs."

"They will make an exception. They _must_. I hear you are quite the swot. You might even win the big prize," he teased, eyes sparking with mischief.

"I don't think so," she retorted, crossing her legs too, for good measure. "You'll find I'm as daft as a bird. No help at all."

"Modesty does not become you," he replied, cocking his head to the side. "Perhaps you are afraid that I will beat you?"

The question was light, almost innocent, and yet its cadence was biting, like a serpent coiling its tail to snap at her.

 _I will beat you._

Hermione clenched her teeth. She felt warmth crawling up the back of her shirt, climbing to the roots of her hair. "Or maybe that _I_ will beat _you_."

Tom's smile stretched grotesquely. And yet, the devil remained as charming as ever.

"Your cheeks turn such a lovely vermilion when you are filled with wrath, my dear."

Hermione hated when her face got red. Her complexion was already susceptible to the whims of her temper. She pressed a palm to her cheek, self-conscious.

In a flash, he was kneeling by her side, like a lynx stalking its prey. She did not have time to protest; he wrenched her hand away from her face. Hermione parted her lips. His hold on her wrist was as fast as manacles. She could feel her pulse underneath his grip, and yet, by a meeting of hands, she also felt his. She couldn't distinguish between them, they were both fast.

"Never hide it like a stain. Wear your rage proudly," he said, almost softly, his other hand coming up to brush against the roundness of her cheek. His thumb stroked the warm patch of skin and left a momentary white blot against the angry red. "Sometimes, that monster digging a pit inside your chest is your only friend in the world."

She wrenched her head away in a show of disgust.

"Turning sentimental now?" she taunted, eyes fixed on the TV screen. Yet she felt the monster digging the pit in her chest.

"Wouldn't dream of it, my dear," he spoke, releasing her wrist with an almost studied care. Like a pianist lifting his finger from a lingering key. The gentleness of the act lashed at her skin like a whip.

"In fact," he said as he rose effortlessly from his crouch and stood over her chair, a princely omen of destruction, "I shall be merciless. Good fathers are supposed to let children win at games. But I am not a very good father, am I?"

Hermione smiled a bitter smile. "No, on that we can agree."

"Excellent," he smirked. "Grab your coat. We don't want to be late."


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Awfully sorry for this long break, but I'm so thankful for your continued support, and I hope this chapter partially makes up for my absence. Thank you!_

* * *

 **Eleven**

* * *

"You're a brainy little bird," the barkeep let her know with an inappropriate wink, passing the steaming mug of tea in her direction. She had ordered a strange concoction - possibly native to the holiday village – which consisted of strongly brewed black tea and a dash of rum and vanilla. He didn't bother to ask if she was of age, because it did not seem to matter. Alcohol here was judged only by the pint, not the mug.

Hermione issued a small 'thank you' to the drink, not the compliment. She was aware that the barkeep wasn't the only one looking at her. The other patrons at the counter gave her appraising looks. On the one hand, the attention bolstered her confidence, but on the other hand, it made her painfully aware that she was being admired for the precocious _child_ that she was, like a fascinating exhibit at the zoo.

She returned to her and Tom's booth with a strange mixture of elation and disappointment.

Tom had been eyeing the friendly bartender with something like aristocratic distaste.

Hermione plopped down in her seat opposite him, sloshing some tea on the table.

"Are you thinking of murdering him too, then?"

He turned to her with an affable smile, not missing a beat. "I thought I only murdered women, in your estimation."

Hermione clicked her tongue. "At least you're admitting to it now."

"I admit to nothing. Tell me, are you enjoying yourself?"

She scratched at the plastic coaster with her nail. "No."

It was a weak lie, even for her. The truth was that she _liked_ having got so many of the questions right, even if it made her look like a nasty know-it-all.

Her score card was the second highest in the pub. But Tom was unbeatable. True to his word, he was not giving her any leeway. They all had to write their answer down on a piece of paper after the host gave them the question. Whoever said " _Constable_!" the fastest got to reveal their answer. Hermione had to shout at the top of her lungs to be heard over Tom, and she had to be twice as fast and twice as vigilant. Even when she got to say her answer, she _did_ get it wrong sometimes. Like in the round where she'd mixed up her facts and put Michael Faraday as the inventor of the friction match.

"John Walker," Tom had corrected her smugly.

It had taken all of her might not to slap the card out of his hand. But she enjoyed the brutish competition, even if she wasn't winning. The few times she managed to get the upperhand were glorious.

"Point to number twenty-seven!" the host would shout. _She_ was number twenty-seven, and very proud of it.

Tom flicked the tip of his cigarette in the ashtray, looking at her as if he knew what she was thinking.

Hermione grew stiff. "How do you know all this stuff, anyway?"

He shrugged, blowing smoke in her face. "Picked it up here and there."

She folded her arms. "I suppose you're the kind of bookseller who actually reads his books."

"And you're the kind of schoolgirl who thumbs her textbooks front to back," he replied amiably.

"It's slightly more pathetic coming from a – how old are you, anyway?" she asked airily, taking a sip of her tea.

She didn't know why she was being so obliquely sarcastic, like an older woman who was used to sizing up younger men. It was unlike her. She thought it must be the atmosphere in the pub, it made her feel more grown-up.

Tom cocked his head to the side. "Why do you think we know so many things?"

Hermione stuck her nose in her drink, trying her best to ignore his feline eyes. "I don't know _that_ many things."

"I think it's a form of defense," Tom continued, ignoring her comment. "We are scared of being naked in the world."

The rum tasted like caramel on her tongue. She swallowed quickly. "You admit to being scared of something?"

"Only the very foolish never fear," he said, lighting a new fag.

"Then…you are scared of being vulnerable?" Hermione asked, thinking that somewhere in this conversation there must be a trap.

"Do you know the etymology?" he mused, lightly. "It comes from _vulnus_ , Latin for wound. And if you go a bit further back, _vul_ becomes _welh_ , an Indo-European remnant. Try to sound it out. _Welh_. It reminds one of wellness, of good. But it's…it's a tearing. You are being torn apart. That's what it means. And yet, you float on _welh_ , like a newborn child, and you suspect nothing."

Hermione watched his lips as they gently cupped the filter. She blinked, trying to break the spell of his words.

"You are afraid that you'll be caught off guard?"

Tom smiled, cigarette between his lips. "That is a very philistine guess, Hermione. I'm disappointed."

She frowned, gripping her mug tightly. "Shut up. Let me think."

And she could see he _loved_ her need to be right. He waited, pleased with her struggle.

"You're afraid that," she began tentatively, "if _welh_ should happen, if you got torn apart, you would…not know. You wouldn't know it's happening."

Tom exhaled smoke. "Mm. Closer. That's why we equip ourselves with so much knowledge. Because at any moment…"

The smoke curled into soft, meandering half-moons which glided on the air and broke apart when they reached the ceiling.

And she imagined a great claw ripping through the walls and tearing their flesh as they stood there, in their little booth. And they would be none the wiser. You never know, until you're in the middle of it.

"Contestants, it's time for another round!" the host announced on the stage. "Get ready to say constable!"

Tom rested his unfinished cigarette on top of his glass of brandy and picked up his pencil.

Hermione readied herself, though her thoughts remained on the claw.

The crowd rustled with excitement as the man on the stage cleared his throat. Their eyes were glowing, whether from drink or from sport, she did not know.

"For those of you with a penchant for literature, name the Orwellian novel where the character Dorothy Hare appears."

Hermione bit her lip in distress. She didn't know this one. But Tom was scribbling away, undisturbed.

She resented his writing, his confidence. She wanted to stop the game. She wanted to knock the pencil from his hand. Her eyes glided over to his abandoned cigarette. It seemed to be waiting for someone to pick it up.

She reached out, her hand like a tentacle, and seized it between trembling fingers.

It was warm. It even seemed to have a heartbeat.

She brought it shakily to her mouth, watching the burning end, the way the paper withered into a murky brown. It glowed, like the people's eyes, like the Christmas lights. She felt grown-up, but not adult. She did not put it between her lips, but she kept it very close. Instead, her tongue darted out tentatively to lick the filter.

Tom had stopped writing and was watching her.

She tasted tobacco at first, but underneath there was the flavor of his lips. A taste that was wood and metal and a kind of lime-bitterness which made her swallow.

Tom leant forward, watching her tongue with interest.

Her eyes darted to his card quickly, catching half a word, before looking up. The blue around his pupils was dense, like the gloaming above a church steeple. His jaw was locked, the muscles aligned like parts of an orchestra, ready to strike the instruments.

She pressed her lips to the filter, but she did not breathe in.

His profile was very handsome to someone looking from a distance. But up close, like this, his appetites bloomed under his skin and his beauty was seized by the throat and made to choke. _Sometimes, that monster digging a pit inside your chest is your only friend in the world,_ he had said. Well, his monster was suffocating. She had called it out, and robbed it of breath.

She parted her lips and let the cigarette dangle carelessly, as her tongue charted a slow circle around the filter.

She could almost _hear_ the hunger in his bones.

Hermione spat the cigarette out. It landed on the table between them.

"Constable!"

"Yes, number twenty-seven!" the host roared like a tempest.

" _A Clergyman's Daughter_!" she said out loud, twisting in her seat. "That's the answer."

"Correct! Point goes to number twenty-seven!"

Hermione turned around, a feeling of euphoria in her gut. Tom was crushing the cigarette's tip into the ashtray.

"My little vixen," he said, and tossed his card in the ashtray too.

* * *

Despite her little cheat, she hadn't won the quiz. But it had felt good to deceive, if only for one moment. Looking back on it, she didn't know if she had done it consciously. So many things in his presence seemed guided by raw instinct.

They walked down the deserted street towards the hotel. She picked at her gloves, listening to the sound of boots on the pavement.

"Was that your first cigarette?" he asked conversationally.

"Technically, I didn't smoke," she replied, her breath coming out in a fog. The rum had given her a light buzz. Her forehead was burning.

"Did you like the taste?"

"It was disgusting," she said tartly.

Tom chuckled. "All the best things are."

Up ahead, they saw a communal garden surrounded by a small fence. A clumsy Nativity scene had been erected between the frozen shrubs. The Christmas lights twinkled anemically in the winter mistral.

Tom stopped in front of it. "Do you mind looking away, my dear? I need to take a leak."

Perhaps he knew she would not look away, that disgust is always a little bit married to curiosity. He stepped towards the fence which barely reached his knees and he unzipped the front of his trousers.

Hermione watched, unable to help herself.

She could hardly make out his cock in the dark, but she felt its presence anyway. She had never seen that offensive organ. Was this nakedness? Vulnerability? Was it _welh_? A claw should come and take him. _She_ could be the claw. She looked down at her fingers. She imagined them squeezing his cock until he screamed. She imagined kneeling and –

She let out a gasp of revulsion.

Tom swiveled his head around, as a thick stream of piss landed on the muddy flecks of snow on the ground. The spray hit young Mary on the cheek, and some drops landed on the bundle in her arms. The donkeys were grinning.

"You're not looking away," he admonished with a smile.

Hermione sank her gloved hands in the pockets of her coat. She shrugged. "There's nothing to see."

But her eyes absorbed each detail with alacrity.

Tom's smile grew fangs.

And she understood momentarily something she would later put out of her mind. If _welh_ does happen, it's not that you won't know it, it's that you will enjoy it.

Tom zipped himself up and joined her on the trek back to the hotel.

"I hope they serve a good breakfast in the morning," he said wistfully, sounding very much like a normal young man. A well-bred, well-educated young man who had just won a pub quiz and had pissed all over little Jesus.

She licked her lips. She could still taste that cigarette. "I'm not hungry."

"I imagine you will be," he said softly, barely above whisper.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Once again, a small delay, but I hope the length of this chapter makes up for it. Thank you so much for all your reviews, I can't believe we're already halfway through 400! I'm really happy you appreciate the themes and aesthetics, I couldn't ask for better readers._

* * *

 **Twelve**

* * *

What made her want to look was the sound of his belt coming out of its hook. She was worried for a moment that he had taken it out to commit some kind of violence. But she was perhaps fooling herself. She could hear her mother's snores in the other room. He wasn't going to do anything. Was he?

She couldn't stand still, so she scuttled across the small hallway separating the living area from the bedroom.

He was only undressing. He stood with his back to her, perhaps on purpose. His trousers were already dangling on the back of a chair. His long socks covered muscles that were spun like glass. He removed his well-tailored jersey and placed it neatly on the bed, smoothing out its wrinkles. His arms were alabaster white and the bones showed through, like sculpted stone. It looked as if someone had taken a chisel to his skin and chipped at it indiscriminately, leaving behind a feral outline. You could cut yourself on his shape. He was both feeble and ferocious in his nakedness. He removed his wife-beater slowly, and his back rippled silver in the moonlight, his shoulder blades like two sets of teeth.

Tom raised a hand to the back of his neck and caressed the skin. Her mother was still snoring without a care.

Hermione felt a hatred for his beautiful, cultivated skin. It should be raked with dirt and muck, it should have coarse fissures.

"It's not polite to stare, darling," he said quietly, removing his boxers carelessly and walking to the bed, slipping inside the covers next to Jean.

Hermione turned her head away just in time. She only caught a flash of something dark and soft, but it was too imprecise in the weak light of the room.

* * *

She undressed in the bathroom, quickly, as if to efface her own nakedness. She wanted the shower to run as hot as possible, to remove the stink of pub, the smell of piss. She could still see yellow in the snow, the Virgin crying tears of urine.

She didn't lock the bathroom door. She could have, and perhaps she should have. That way, she wouldn't have had to lie in wait. She took her razor into the shower and started shaving herself, but all the while, she kept thinking that if he opened the door and came inside, she could cut him with it. She could give him a good slash. Maybe he'd put a hand on her leg, and she could swipe the razor and make a tear on that pretty hand of his. She wanted to rake his back.

But all she managed to do was cut herself clumsily as she shaved her thighs. Pink blood swirled down the drain and she stared at it for a long time, thinking about the Virgin.

* * *

In the morning, her mother had dark circles under her eyes, even though she had slept for most of the afternoon and night. Hermione was strangely reminded of a time in her distant childhood when Jean had tended to a small garden in the backyard. She used to grow lettuce and peas and cucumbers. She would shell the peas at the weekends while Hermione read books at her feet. She could see those dry shells now, spilling from her mother's lap. The garden had been turned over, abandoned. And here was an older woman, sitting in front of her. Unrecognizable, almost.

"Oh, God, I'm so tired, and it's only the first day of our holidays," Jean laughed, sipping at her coffee weakly.

"It's because you work too hard. It's difficult for you to unwind," Tom offered sympathetically as he poured milk into her coffee.

Hermione wondered if he had slipped something into that cup. He said he hadn't sedated her mother, but she didn't have sedatives in mind. The thought of poison slipped in and out of her mind as she consumed her breakfast. Tom had been right, she was _ravenous_. She breathlessly devoured her eggs and sausages and French toast and washed them down with tea. It felt a little wrong, to be stuffing herself like that while her mum was under the weather. But Jean was pleased that she was eating.

"I always have trouble fattening you up at home," she said fondly, squeezing her daughter's hand. Her grip felt weak. Hermione regarded her with concern.

"Maybe we should go to the doctor."

"Yes, love. Perhaps Hermione is right," Tom murmured affectionately but without much concern.

"Nonsense!" Jean protested, waving her hand. "I just need some fresh air. What should be our first destination for the day?"

* * *

There was apparently an old pagan shrine at the top of a hill just a few miles away. It was supposed to be very picturesque. The brochure said that there were a lot of solstice shrines in this part of the county. Though they were no megaliths, they seemed to date from a time when the Anglo-Saxons had yet to be christened and were still praying to obscure gods. Jean was delighted.

Tom trekked after his beloved, carrying a rucksack with their lunches, while her mother took scenic snapshots of the valley and forced Hermione to be the star of these photos.

Hermione had never liked having her picture taken, but she indulged her mother. The photos never seemed to come out well. Her teeth were too big, or her hair was too frizzy, or the colour in her cheeks was too drab. It was always one small ugliness over another. In movement, Hermione felt she might strike an interesting pose, but when made to stand still and smile for the camera, she turned into a gherkin.

Besides, there wasn't much to photograph around them. Everything was a muted grey, from the bare trees to the hoar-dusted hedges. The wintry landscape solidly rejected admiration. In a way, it was like her, Hermione decided. All young girls feel that they are as unlovable as nature in deprivation.

Tom stood next to Jean as she snapped her camera. He whispered to Hermione only with his lips, _smile_.

"Keep still, sweetheart," her mother cooed.

She kept scratching at her leg, where she'd made the small cuts in the shower.

* * *

Hermione reached the top of the hill and stopped. The shrine was simple and stark. There was a stone in the shape of a bruised egg with a small hole in it, sitting atop a perpendicular construction that looked ready to crumble. No light poked through the small hole yet, but it was meant to be a doorway for the sun. She supposed that during a solstice, the effect was striking.

When she turned around to call for her mother, she saw that she and Tom were kissing in the distance. Tom was cradling her head and Jean was relishing his grasp on her. Hermione shuddered and scratched her leg. She went forward to touch the egg. It was cold, but not as frigid as she'd expected. It had a rough, comforting quality to it. She stroked it with both her hands and slipped two fingers through the small hole. She wriggled her fingers playfully and slid them in and out of the hole. Then she realized this was a religious artifact and felt as if she were desecrating it somehow. The unbidden image of the Virgin and her baby, bathed in piss, made her draw back in shame.

When she looked back, Tom was kissing her mother's head in an almost fatherly gesture, but he was staring straight at her. He had seen what she'd done. His eyes seemed to whisper once more, _smile_.

* * *

By late-afternoon, Jean was knackered and sleepy and in the mood for a bath. They returned to the Inn together and had a quiet supper of unflavored ravioli on the upper deck (the design of the place was still, steadfastly, maritime). They talked sporadically about their plans for the next day, but Hermione tuned out their conversation and focused on her mother, surveying her features carefully. Jean seemed content, though tired. She had an almost sickly glow to her skin, the kind she got after a particularly rough shift at the hospital. But you couldn't tell there was something wrong with her otherwise. Hermione curled her fingers around her fork. He wasn't going to get away with this.

Not _her_ mother.

* * *

She lay on the sofa, trying in vain to fall sleep. It was too early, and her mouth was aching with all the words she wanted to say. She was planning all kinds of revenge. Ever since Tom had entered her life, she was always thinking about retribution, about what she would do to him. She felt so cowardly, sitting here, not really _doing_ anything. If she really had the gumption, she would hurt him so bad he wouldn't be able to walk.

Finally, she could bear it no longer. She grabbed a sharp pencil from her bag and she crept up towards the bedroom. She was going to talk him down, even if her mother was awake.

Her mother wasn't awake.

Tom was sitting up in bed, reading a dog-eared book. It seemed to be written in some Slavonic language. She recognized a few Cyrillic letters on the jacket. He turned each page without much interest, as if he had read it all before. His torso was bare, a faint inkling of downy hair on his chest. Hermione tried not to look at that expanse of skin.

Her mother's head was buried in her pillow next to him. Her limbs had sunk into the mattress. She almost looked _dead_.

Hermione advanced into the room and Tom looked up from his book placidly.

"Can't sleep? Neither can I," he said amiably, eyeing her woolen pajama bottoms with a knowing look.

Hermione almost felt like scratching her leg. It was silly; he couldn't see the cuts through the fabric.

"I know what you're doing to Mother. If you don't stop, I'll do worse to you," she said coldly, keeping the pencil behind her back.

Tom cocked his head to the side. He let the book fall in his lap.

"In fact, I might do it anyway. You deserve it," she continued, eyes narrowed to slits. It was good to see less of him. "You think you're so clever, but you forget I'm a good chemist. Whatever poison you think you've got, I can do better."

Tom smiled, raising himself slightly, his arms almost reaching out to her. "Come here."

Hermione frowned. He was not supposed to take this so lightly. Why was he so relaxed? It was probably an act. She stood her ground. "No."

"Come here and I will tell you more."

"No."

Tom sighed, though he seemed delighted with her stubbornness. "Come and sit here. I know you're curious. And I know you care about Jean. Don't you?"

Hermione stared at the large bed. It was big enough to accommodate three people easily. She wrangled with herself for a few moments. She slipped the pencil in the elastic of her underwear. And then she walked to the bed and sat down on the edge, on her mother's side.

"Lie down," he invited her. "Your mother won't wake."

"Thanks to you," she retorted.

"Lie down here," he said, drawing a horizontal line across the bed. "Put your head on my knees."

Hermione felt the samite softness of the coverlet under her fingers. You could choke someone easily with it. That was his specialty, after all.

Tom patted his knees. "I don't want to repeat myself."

Hermione clambered over to him slowly and lay down on her back, her thick hair spilling all over his legs.

"You can go a little higher," he instructed in a velvety voice.

Hermione could feel him so close, his warmth seeping through her clothes. Her mother was right there. Hermione's legs were propped up on Jean's ankles. It was a strange tableau, something out of Rembrandt, _The Anatomy Lesson_. The three of them, participating in a kind of disembowelment.

"I don't want to go a little higher," she said to him in a clipped tone.

"Shame. It feels so good," he spoke softly and his voice carried with it the promise of some secret pleasure, something she would naturally despise.

She lay there with her breath dangling in her throat, staring up at the dark ceiling.

Gently, almost like a disappointment, his fingers sank in her hair. Not to pull or tug or yank. They simply parted her locks, going from her scalp down the tips, slowly, methodically. He was caressing her hair.

Hermione blinked. She was in a dream state, but not sleeping.

His spider fingers combed through her knots, turning her hair into sand.

"My mother," she said, half in question.

"Don't worry, my dear. It's not poison. It's only a small dosage of something harmless. It won't affect her health." A pause, in which he twisted a stubborn strand around his finger and pinned it down. "For now."

"For now," she repeated calmly, feeling her mother's weight on the bed.

"Let me tell you a good night story," he said suddenly.

"I don't want –"

"Of course you do. You are insatiable in that way."

Hermione almost started. The word knocked against her ears with echo: _in-sa-tia-ble_. It sounded like small cuts across her thighs.

The pencil was lodged in her back. She could reach for it now, she could plunge it in his leg. He would scream in rage – or maybe not scream at all. Maybe he would smile and tell her the cut wasn't deep enough.

"There was once a little girl, slightly younger than you," he began serenely. "Are you listening?"

"…yes."

"Good. She had flaxen her, smooth to the touch, very much unlike yours," he chuckled, digging the tips of his fingers into her scalp. Hermione clenched her fingers over her stomach, as if in protest. But she continued listening.

"This little girl lived in a tropical region where it was always hot and humid. Somewhere in Guyana, let's say."

"The capital of which is Georgetown," Hermione murmured, staring at the ceiling.

"Very good," he whispered, threading his fingers through her hair. "In any case, the little girl did not live in the capital. She lived in a small village by the lagoon. She was good at catching fish with her hands, and she loved to squeeze bitter oranges in her mouth. We don't know if she was happy, but she did not think about pain."

Hermione thought that the shadows on the ceiling were starting to look like the waves of the ocean. She let her eyes flutter shut as his fingers carded through her hair.

"And then, one very hot evening when the mosquitoes were circling her ankles and the sweat was gathering between her toes, she got this great hankering to swim in the lagoon. So, she walked from her house down to the wharf and she jumped into the water. But she never made it. You see, when she made the dive, she was dropped from the sky …into frigid snow. She opened her eyes and she saw a vast white desert stretching before her. It was almost translucent, like looking at the bottom of a glass. Nothing for miles except this pearly waste. She was already hypothermic at this point. She was buried to the waist in ice. Recall, please, that she was used to the tropics and barely had any clothes on. She died in a matter of minutes. A few hours after, two polar bears found her and devoured her flesh politely. They split the meat like brothers. Her family never found her. No one knew exactly how or where she disappeared. They thought she'd drowned."

Hermione felt the cold of the Arctic in her bones, waist-deep. His fingers were like small shards of ice, drilling into her skull.

"Why?" she asked, staring at the ceiling, which now looked like snow. "Why did that happen? Was she being punished?"

She could hear Tom exhale slowly. "Of course not."

"Was it a strange gap in time and space? A matter of bad luck?" she pressed on.

"Sure, if you care about such things."

"What do you mean?"

"We can find an explanation for anything, if we dwell on it long enough. But it does not need an explanation."

"Of course it does. Humans require explanations."

Tom chuckled and tickled the hairs at the base of her nape. "Actually, explanations are quite a recent invention. There was a time in the past when we lived without asking why. Things happened, events preceded us, and we followed them. That was the story."

"A thoughtless story," she murmured. "The past was filled with genocide and injustice."

"As is the present," he continued, undisturbed. "The only difference is, we _call_ it genocide and injustice now."

"What did we call in the past?"

"Life."

They stood in silence for a few moments, she thinking he was wrong, he knowing exactly what she was thinking.

"I want to live this life, Hermione. And so do you."

"A kind of life where things just happen? Where there is no judgment of outcome?" she guessed easily.

"Precisely," and his fingers smoothed the hairs on her forehead.

Hermione turned her head to the side. "You're wrong about me."

Tom's knuckles circled her ear as he watched the shadows play on her face. She refused to look up at him.

"Your mother doesn't have to die, my dear," he said with a disturbing note of compassion in his voice. It was the tenderness that was most vile, she thought.

"But…" he trailed off.

Hermione closed her eyes. "But someone else has to."

Tom smiled genially. "See, I was not wrong about you."

"Find me another to kill, and your mother shall be spared."

* * *

Hermione turned over, hair tumbling down her back, the callous motion of mermaid in water.

Her chin was above his knee. He liked the placing of their limbs in such distant but suggestive proximity. He watched her with cold hunger, well concealed behind his smile.

"A life to replace a life…" she muttered darkly.

"That is a crude way of putting it, but you are rarely subtle, my dear," he murmured, enjoying the way her mouth puckered into a scowl.

"We must do it together, though," he added. "We must choose our sacrificial lamb, and then carry out the sentence. For your mother's sake."

He could see a small bump on the back of her pajama pants. It looked like a writing instrument. He laughed privately, a sort of snarl that she couldn't hear. How ready she was for this dance. She had no idea. She was ready to live this life with him.

 _We will kill together._

Hermione stared at him for a long time. "What if I choose you? What if you are the sacrificial lamb?"

His smile widened. "You may try that, on your mother's life. It may become your separate obsession, if you will. But I fear it will be some time before you finish _me_ off. I advise you to start small. I was once like you, at the dawn of my career, and I required practice. A lion cub does not eat the grown gazelle. A lion cub eats what his mother gives him. Now, lion cub, what do you say?"

He could see the spell of his words, threading through her blood, the way his fingers threaded through her hair. A kind of music started playing under her skin, but she wasn't aware. No, she couldn't be yet.

Her eyes had a luminosity, a kind of feral veil. She nodded curtly, neither assenting nor dissenting.

Instead she asked, "Did you read that story in your book? The one about the young girl?"

And she nudged her chin towards the volume he had placed on the bedside table.

Always insatiable, this one. Truly perfect, if she allowed herself to be.

"That would be telling," he murmured, drinking in her curiosity.

Hermione scowled, sliding away from him, the callous mermaid swimming back into the deep blue.

Oh, how he wanted to drag that insouciant mouth to his and lick her lips clean. He missed the smell of her arousal, fingers delving into her clever little cunt.

He would only have to wait awhile longer.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Some of you have messaged me about some pretty edits on Tumblr and I had to check them out and I was so touched! And frankly overwhelmed and very impressed with your artistic skills. You're awesome. I hope you don't mind if I use one of the edits as an avatar for the story. Thank you once again for your wonderful reviews, I'm always a little afraid this will be the chapter where you decide "enough is enough, this shit is too sinful" lol. I'm glad this hasn't happened yet! Thank you!_

* * *

 **Thirteen**

* * *

It had to be a woman. That much she understood. A female to pay for a female's life – namely, her mother's life. Tom did not seem to be a killer of men. She could have vouched he had never murdered anyone with a penis. But – would it be safe to make such final pronouncements regarding him? He might have played around with his mates when he was a young boy and killed one by accident, or for sport. He must have honed in his talents somehow and somewhere.

She shook off the morbid thought; it would only slow her down. It had to be a woman. What remained to be decided were her age, occupation and disposition. The victim couldn't be a _child_. Once more, Hermione was not positive Tom had not done harm to someone very young. By many legal definitions, _she_ was still a "child" and he had certainly caused her misfortune.

But _their_ victim had to be older, of course. Someone her mother's age. Ideally, she wouldn't have a family to mourn her or children to remain destitute without her. More importantly, she should be a faded sort of person whose death wouldn't cause a great stir. From a moral standpoint, of course, the best thing would be to kill a woman who was evil or malicious in some way. Who did more harm than good. A woman who, let's say, enjoyed abusing children or had killed her partner by slipping arsenic in his food.

Hermione rested her chin in the crook of her palm. These were all fairy-tales, neat fabrication with a pretty bow at the end. Real life was messier, she knew. In real life, maybe the partner deserved the arsenic. Maybe the mother suffered from mental illness and couldn't help being spiteful to her offspring. People were complicated and indefinable. They were neither good nor bad.

Except Tom. He was not complex in that regard, you could tell he was bad. Yet his badness was not simple. He was not ill. He did not seek revenge or self-gratification; he did not do it for money or fame. He did evil for evil's sake. Like art, evil was an aesthetic experience, something to aspire to.

She lay on the sofa with her limbs akimbo, listening to the sounds in the other room, trying to distinguish between groans and sighs. Whenever she heard Tom shift in bed, she wondered what he was doing to her mother. Was he spooning her body? Was he breathing down her neck? They were not having sex, they wouldn't go that far. But there were worse things than sex.

Hermione felt snow in the back of her throat. She swallowed deeply, but it never seemed to melt.

She dreamt of Tom pinning Jean in bed with his weight, running his long fingers over her mother's cheek, whispering that she would be "next", unless Hermione found him fresh carrion.

Slowly, he metamorphosed into a bear, a white bear. The room was filled up with snow. They were in the Arctic, floating on ice. She couldn't feel her hands and feet anymore.

She woke up with the snow in her mouth. It was still winter. And there was much left to do.

* * *

The holiday came to an end eventually, and they had to check out of Grayling Inn. It was a shame, because her mother was starting to feel better. Tom must have stopped tampering with her tea cup now that he and her daughter had struck a deal. But this reprieve would not last long.

Hermione found herself in the back of his car again, but this time her mood was starkly different. She was no longer adrift and disinterested. She was alert to every detail around her, seeing the holiday village as if for the first time. In a way, she was _relieved_. She had been given a problem and she had to solve it. She had always liked difficult tasks. She hated being suspended in the unknown. At least now she had a trajectory.

Victimhood.

The word had a sordid sentimental echo. Like a basket of kittens abandoned on the side of the road. To be a victim was terrible not just because you were fated for weakness, but because you were also not very interesting.

Everyone remembered the killers, the perpetrators. The victims died twice: in body and in the memory of the indolent around them.

Victims bored, while evil-doers thrilled.

Tom suddenly hit the brakes hard and Hermione was launched into the front seats, her shoulder wedged between him and her mother. She hissed in pain.

"Oh, sorry darling, are you all right?" Jean fussed, patting her cheek.

The guilty party turned out to be a jaywalker who had crossed the road in front of them. It was a _she_. A woman carrying what looked like a heavy raffia bag, struggling to get to the bus stop on the other side.

Hermione looked at Tom's profile. He turned to her slightly. Their faces were illuminated by the same ugly thought.

Here was a woman who was courting death. The regular crossing was only a few feet away. The bus was not coming. She could have avoided the risk. Perhaps, people like her did not consider fatality. They thought they were safe from harm, but that were mistaken.

Hermione flinched away from the thought. She was repulsed by her own pragmatic conclusion. She drew back into her seat with a shudder.

Tom stared into the rear-view mirror and it was hard not to meet his gaze. His eyes were almost kind, understanding.

He seemed to be saying, _Don't worry, pet. I wouldn't waste our talents on her._

* * *

January was always a dispiriting time at school. The beginning of a new semester meant a different batch of teachers – it was part of school policy – and that usually put a damper on the learning process since the students had to acclimate to new faces every time. Year Ten's old professors would go to Year Nine. It was really unfair, since she had gotten on so well with her old Chem teacher. She'd been the one to encourage her to apply for the young scientist's grant.

The new addition, Professor Umbridge, was a woman that did not inspire any faith in Hermione. She tried, as a rule, not to judge a book by its cover. Umbridge was a plump and toady little woman whose mouth looked as if she had swollen a fat fly. She was dressed in the most garish hues of fuchsia and pink and every article of clothing she owned seemed to be made of chintz or lace. Hermione wasn't sure how she had managed to defy school policy with such a nebulous fashion sense.

Still, she wouldn't have minded Professor Umbridge if the first sentence out of her mouth was, "You shouldn't bother with the young scientist's grant, dear."

"Pardon?" she asked, confused. She had stayed after class especially to ask her if she might receive guidance with her extracurricular project.

Umbridge had a very sedate yet chirpy way of talking, so that her speech was both dull and alarming, in equal measure.

"What I _mean_ is," she drawled, lengthening each vowel sweetly, "you should focus on theory over practice and make sure you get a good overall score on your GCSEs. Bold experiments should only be attempted _after_ your schooling is done. You are too young to lose sight of your future."

"I understand– but this project will help with my application for university. It's crucial for my future."

Umbridge shook her head and the grey curls pinned at the top of her head trembled slightly. Her beady eyes narrowed as her smile remained frozen in place.

"There are better, _safer_ ways of getting into university, my dear. Spending extra hours in the Lab, unattended… "

"But _you_ would be attending me, Professor –"

"You shouldn't speak in my name, Miss Granger. I am not at your beck and call, I'm afraid," Umbridge replied with the most saccharine inflection possible, despite the chastisement.

"I didn't mean to imply –"

"No, you didn't. So there's no point discussing it further. I hope I have made myself _perfectly_ clear."

Hermione swallowed down the words of protest on her tongue. "Yes, Professor."

She supposed she would have to get access to the Lab covertly, after hours. Umbridge needn't know.

.

* * *

When she stepped through the door that evening, a delicious smell wafted from the kitchen and tickled her nostrils invitingly.

"I made filet mignon," Tom beckoned cheerfully from the hallway. "Go wash up and come join me."

Join _me_.

So, her mother had another late shift at the hospital. They were alone in the house. Hermione trudged up the stairs with little enthusiasm, though she was rather anticipating the food. She was starving. She caught the back of Tom's head in passing. He was wearing a white apron, looking the very picture of domesticity. She quickened her pace, trying not to dwell on the image.

She stepped into her room and locked the door shut behind her.

Hermione walked over to her desk and dumped her school bag on the top. She turned on her heels.

Something was different about her room. Something was off. As if a particular object had been removed from its place and only her subconscious could tell. Had Tom been pilfering again?

She paced the length of her room, trying to ascertain if something had been taken or replaced. Everything seemed to be in order, but the feeling of inadequacy lingered. What was amiss?

It was only on her fourth turn about the room that she identified the source of her unease. Stacked on her nightstand was a pile of books, but that wasn't the unfamiliarity. She had borrowed them from the library. She knew none of them had a ghastly title or a bawdy drawing on the cover. None of them were Tom's literature.

Yet, she didn't remember borrowing the third book in the pile.

The volume was a Penguin Classic, so there was nothing too controversial about it. It was only when she pulled it out and examined the cover that she gave a start. On the front, it showed a man and a woman, garbed in 19th century dress, embracing passionately over…what looked like the fallen body of a dead man.

 _Therese Raquin_ , by Emile Zola, it read. She perused the plot summary on the back and it seemed to confirm the startling image on the front. Therese was a young woman who had been forced to marry her first cousin, a feeble-brained narcissist. She thought she would be condemned to a life of misery, until she met her husband's friend, Laurent. Together, they embarked on a passionate affair which led to their plotting to kill her husband.

 _What absolute tripe_ , Hermione thought angrily.

She sat down on the bed and flipped through the novel, searching the pages for hidden messages or markings. But there was nothing to it, it was only fiction. Potent fiction, however.

Her finger stopped at a page whose corner had been slightly creased. Her eyes traveled over the words feverishly, wishing she were more powerful to resist. But the cadenced prose swept her into a kind of blind submission.

Hermione read.

"… _she seemed to revel in daring and shamelessness. Not a single moment of hesitation or fear possessed her. She threw herself into adultery with a kind of furious honesty, flouting danger, and as it were, taking pride in doing so…"_

Her blood rushed to her ears. _Revel_. It was a dance, and a verb, and a sin. _Flouting danger._ Like a whip coming down on a beast's back.

She slammed the book shut and stared at the cover again. The lovers seemed ecstatic in their folly. The embrace was genuine, but the cost was ghastly.

She threw the book on the floor and stomped on it with her sock. The cover cracked slightly under her weight. But the feeling was not very satisfying. It was as if the book was sprouting little vines which twisted round her ankle and trapped her in its lure. She staggered away from it and leaned against her desk for support.

She would have preferred a book on asphyxiation.

* * *

When she climbed down the stairs, Tom was already seated at the kitchen table, waiting for her. He had set the dishes and the silverware and had poured them two tall glasses of red wine. He put down his newspaper when he saw her enter.

"I can't have that," she said, pointing at the wine.

"Of course you can. It goes well with red meat."

She sat down in the chair opposite his. The filet mignon was soaked in butter and sprinkled with parsley. It looked divine. So did the stovetop Brussels sprouts. Her mouth was already watering.

She raised her hand and reached for her fork – and she noticed she did not have one. She did not have a knife either. The only silverware was in Tom's hands.

He started cutting the meat.

"Open wide, darling."

Hermione clenched her jaw. "I'm not an _infant_. I can feed myself."

"Oh, don't be a bore. This is not about your age," he insisted with a rakish smile which was reflected in the knife's blade. "And it's certainly not about food."

"Then what is it about?"

He cocked his head to the side. "It is about pleasure, of course. Most things are."

"I don't see any pleasure in being spoon-fed."

"You wouldn't. Unless you opened wide." And he held the succulent meat in the throngs of his fork. He raised it to her mouth.

"No," she said rather hoarsely. Her stomach was rumbling.

Tom heaved a weary sigh and turned the fork towards him. He swallowed the piece of tenderloin like a cat and licked his lips and the fork clean.

Hermione shifted in her seat. She could just get up and leave. Or she could rummage for some leftovers in the fridge. She could even refuse to eat for the rest of the evening. It would be a test of endurance. A little spiritual fasting.

She stared at the red meat. What if she lunged forward and grabbed it with her fingers and shoved it in her mouth?

Tom read her thoughts precisely.

"Would you resort to something so uncouth?" he grinned, delighted. "Let's see you do it then."

And she realized with chagrin that, of course, this was _also_ part of his plan. He would enjoy watching her debase herself. In both cases, he would savor the spectacle.

Hermione leaned forward on her elbows and clasped her hands together.

"I read the last pages of your book. Therese and Laurent poison each other out of guilt."

Tom's face betrayed no surprise, although the shadows under his eyes seemed to smile.

"Sad, isn't it?"

"That they died?" she inquired.

He shook his head. "That they did not have a better reason to poison each other."

Hermione felt small shivers like little insects kissing her back. She wanted to rub her thighs against his words. She wanted to shove them inside her and then spit them out. She truly hated how often he managed to do this to her.

She parted her lips and leaned forward.

"Wider," he instructed with a soft smile.

She obeyed and opened her mouth until he could see the darkness at the back of her throat.

He rested the tip of the fork on her tongue and she wrapped her lips around it. They stared at each other for a small eternity.

 _God_ , it tasted so good.

She savored it thoroughly, licking the throngs and swallowing every last bit of meat before releasing the fork.

He stabbed another tender piece for her. His eyes were feeding from her.

Hermione tried not to groan every time the filet filled her mouth. But it was difficult to suppress pleasure. She closed her eyes. She reasoned with herself that she was hungry and this was a selfish experience. He was only a hand with an instrument.

She ate, and her toes curled inside her socks.

* * *

"Have you found me a replacement for your mother?"

 _Fresh carrion_ , she thought. She took a gulp of her wine and washed her mouth with it. She was thirsty after such a meal.

She drank some more.

Her belly warmed and her cheeks flushed.

She thought of Professor Umbridge and her toady face.

"Maybe…but I have to be sure," she said, staring beyond him. Of course, she was talking nonsense. She - _they_ wouldn't kill that woman. Umbridge might be a rubbish teacher, but she'd done nothing to warrant such violence.

 _So far_ , she thought treacherously, and watched as Tom took a long sip of his wine. His throat was spectral white in the kitchen light.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Thank you for all your reviews, I can't believe this weird little experiment has wormed its way into your hearts (or psyches, rather). I'm also very grateful and ridiculously happy about the Tumblr edits! As always, I hope you keep reading._

* * *

 **Fourteen**

She had read somewhere that the entire world could be made to fit on a pin's head if one were to eliminate the empty space inside the atoms. All of humanity would become a mere speck, lighter than an eyelash. Bodies did not matter, in the end. If there was such a non-empirical thing as a soul, it probably weighed more than everyone's collective mass. It was a dizzying thought.

How much did life value in a compressed universe?

"Ahem. Miss Granger? Do tell us what you find _so_ compelling outside."

Hermione was pinched awake. The syrupy voice burrowed into her brain until everything was sticky and impure. She straightened in her chair and lifted her eyes to her toady teacher.

"Nothing, Ms. Umbridge. My eyes wandered."

"Is the course not interesting enough for you?" she asked in her pert, friendly cadence. As if they were chatting about inconsequential things.

"It is," Hermione replied, lowering her eyes. "I apologize for my behavior."

"Well, then. I will have to ask you to draw the curtains, just in case."

Her classmates groaned collectively, just as Umbridge knew they would. No one liked studying with the curtains drawn. Hermione would be seen as the culprit.

This was the third time in a week that Umbridge was, pardon the pun, taking umbrage with her attitude. Hermione was certain it had something to do with the fact that she had overlooked her teacher's interdiction to work in the Lab after hours. She usually tried her luck on days when Dolores' Volkswagen Beetle wasn't stationed in the car park. Even so, the woman had eyes everywhere.

No matter how stealth Hermione was, Umbridge got the best of her. Then one evening, Hermione found the locks to the Lab had been changed. And the janitor could do nothing to help her.

At home, when Jean asked her why she muttering at the dinner table, Hermione cleared her throat and said she missed her old Chem teacher. Tom smiled knowingly in his glass of wine but said nothing. He didn't need to.

"Do you want me to write her a note, sweetheart?" Jean asked one evening. "Maybe this Dolores woman would listen to an adult…"

Hermione bristled. "I'm not _ten_ , Mum. I'm almost an adult myself."

Jean paled slightly. "Oh, yes, of course, you're grown up... but you've still got some things to learn."

Hermione sighed into her plate. She felt bad now for snapping at her mother, who had no fault in this. Then she heard Tom's cool, clipped voice.

"That's no way to talk to your mother. I want you to apologize."

A noble sentiment coming from anyone else, but she knew he was only mocking her. His mouth, though drawn in parental gravity, was suppressing peals of laughter.

"I'm sorry, Mum."

Jean patted her hand. "I can still write that note."

"No, thanks. It's best I handle it." And she glanced sideways at Tom. "Alone."

* * *

Hermione waited by the teacher's car. She wondered if the woman knew how much her vehicle resembled a toad.

She wanted to talk to Umbridge outside of the school building. She felt that perhaps a different setting would be conducive to more dialogue. It was, she realized, a fool's errand. Teachers like her were set in their way. As she waited, it started to drizzle. Hermione lifted her rucksack over her head and stared into the distance. She hoped she wouldn't be long now.

And then she saw her on the far corner of the basketball court. She was crouched down slightly, her stout frame comically bent out of shape. Hermione could not see what she was doing. The rain impeded her sight, but she thought she saw Umbridge stuffing something large and _moving_ into her heavy leather purse.

For some reason, she felt shivers crawl down her spine.

Her instincts told her to flee, but she ignored her qualms and remained where she was. She would not show fear in front of this underpaid marm. As Umbridge's shape came into focus and her bulky frame broke through the fine sheet of rain, Hermione saw that in fact, there was a _cat_ in her purse. Its head had popped out of the clasp.

Dolores' thin lips broadened into a smile.

"Miss Granger. Do you need a ride home?"

The offer startled her, almost as much like the cat. She couldn't stop staring at it. It looked like a stray. One of its ears was slightly chewed off. Umbridge followed her eyes and nodded humbly. "Yes, I like to pick them off the street. I don't like to think of the poor darlings suffering all alone. As you can imagine, I'm _quite_ besieged at home."

Hermione bit her lip. That was a very nice thing to do. Perhaps there was more to Umbridge than met the eye.

She was almost tempted to accept her offer, but at the last moment she figured riding in the car with her teacher would be rather awkward. Not to mention unsafe. Hadn't Tom shown her just that?

"Um, no thank you. I was hoping…" she trailed off limply. The lines she'd prepared in advance seemed to melt away with the rain. She felt slow and tired. She kept thinking of all the cats Umbridge probably owned.

"I'll be off now," she said stupidly and turned around with her rucksack over her head.

She ignored Umbridge calling after her. As she passed her car, Hermione thought she saw a handful of discarded needles in her backseat.

* * *

Tom greeted her at the door with a fluffy white towel. He had seen her coming. Her mother was on another late shift. He swaddled her before she could open her mouth. He dragged her inside and cocooned her. He rubbed the towel against her hair, making it stand up with electricity. He covered her face and dried her cheeks, making it difficult to breathe.

She pushed him away. Tom dropped the towel at her feet.

"Go put it in the wash."

He picked up his own basket of laundry and walked away. "Tell me about your day, darling. Did she make you feel more murderous?"

"Did who?" Hermione played dumb. She lifted the towel reluctantly and followed him up the stairs.

"Or did she perhaps soften your heart?" he asked with a sharp glance over his shoulder.

"Well…she saves stray cats," Hermione replied in the interest of conversation.

"Ah, they all do. Have you noticed they always have more sympathy for animals? I despise that sort of prejudice."

Hermione snorted. "You kill people, but you have a problem with _her_?"

Tom smiled genially. "I don't like preferential treatment."

She felt odd for carrying on talking about such terrible things as if they meant nothing. She shook her head. "Anyway, she's not that bad."

"Does the animal want to be saved, I wonder?" he asked no one in particular.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course. It would rather have a home than be outside in the cold."

He propped himself against the washing machine, folding his slender arms elegantly. "You know, darling, sometimes you can be very daft."

Hermione opened her mouth. Then she closed it. She stared at her socks. "I'm fifteen. What's _your_ excuse?"

He laughed with his whole teeth. He loved her little adolescent spurts. He loved the shadow of the woman underneath it. The woman she'd one day be.

* * *

Hermione wondered if it was a trick. But no, the door was open. Umbridge had forgotten to lock the Lab. She scurried inside happily, already wondering how best to make use of these few stolen hours. She thought that perhaps she could get started on the second phase of her project. She was afraid that Umbridge had thrown away all the samples in the fridge. She still had her faithful notes, but it would be better not to have to start the whole thing over.

She shouldn't have worried. Her samples were intact. In fact…there were twice as many. And a few of them had been enhanced. That was odd. Someone had already started phase two: synthesis reaction.

Hermione shifted on her heels. She didn't know what to make of it.

She checked the log.

Only Umbridge had used the Lab after hours for the past two weeks.

Hermione slammed the ledger shut. Perhaps she had her answer.

* * *

She dropped her schoolbag by the stairs. Her mother and Tom were cozied up on the sofa, watching the telly.

"How was school, love? You stayed up late. There's a casserole in the kitchen," Jean greeted her, turning half her body towards her.

"Thanks, Mum. It was fine, a bit tiring. I worked on my project." Her voice quivered slightly. She was trying to mask the white rage pulsing through her veins.

Tom did not turn his head towards her. He seemed engrossed in the quiz show they were watching.

"I'll go grab a bite," Hermione muttered, vaguely annoyed that he was pretending to be disinterested, seeing as he kept alluding to Umbridge.

"Come join us after, or bring your plate here," Jean told her with a small smile. If she suspected something was wrong, she thought a little space would do her daughter good. Perhaps that was true. Hermione didn't feel confident in her own self-control at the moment. She might break the plate if she took it in the living room.

"Um, yeah, I'll just go wash up," she said inconclusively and dashed up the stairs, her temples throbbing.

She sat on the toilet for half an hour holding her head in her hands. She was almost paralyzed with anger. Even the bathroom mat made her want to stab it with her toe. She didn't realize she was waiting for him until he finally opened the door and slipped through. She glared at him, silently accusing him of being late.

"Well?"

"I hate that bitch," she said, all at once. "She's not just preventing me from working on the project. She wants to steal it. I saw it. She wants to finish my project with her name on it."

Tom's eyes glittered like insects. "A tyrant and a thief. She does not deserve the courtesy of living, does she?"

Hermione shook her head. Her body trembled with adrenaline and the sense of the irreversible. She shook her head again, more emphatically. Her mother's life was easily worth more than the toad's. But she couldn't quite pronounce herself. Or could she? If you removed all the empty space in the world, it could fit on the head of a pin. And you could carry that pin in your pocket, and you could plunge that pin inside Dolores' fat little chin.

Tom's cool fingers were suddenly cupping her jaw.

"Yes, pet. _Yes_ to whatever you are contemplating. She shall suffer."

Hermione bit her lip. "Not _too_ much, though. Only what's fair."

"Fair," Tom grinned and bent down until his mouth cast a shadow over hers. "Tell me what's fair."

Hermione was staring at his face and did not notice his hands grasping her thighs. He suddenly lifted her up against the sink. He always did that – his motions had a broken fluidity. She expected there to be more of a prelude. But he pushed her right inside the storm.

A small shriek was trapped in her throat. He pulled her legs around his waist, clinching them shut behind him.

Hermione felt the steady length of him even through her pyjama pants. His cock was not hard. Rather, his whole body was erect for her. It pulsed with need, but it was also remote. A steep cliff.

"Let me down. Mum could come in any moment –"

"Mm. Then I'd have to kill her. Better pray she doesn't," he murmured, squeezing her ass as he lifted her into his arms and carried her across the tiled floor. Hermione clutched at his shoulders in dread. Her legs were still keyed up around him. She didn't know why she couldn't just disentangle herself. It was as if she'd forgotten how.

Tom pushed open the bathroom door and walked into the hallway.

"Fuck, Tom," she whispered frantically into his shoulder. "Mum's gonna –"

"Half the thrill, isn't it?" he said, as he continued to walk at a steady pace towards her room.

Hermione felt warmth in her belly, like charged ionic bonds. She remembered the phials in the fridge. She wanted to scream. Maybe she should, maybe Umbridge would be dead and Tom would be too, and all of this would prove to be a game in her head. But she didn't scream. She let him carry her into her room.

He barged in with her in his arms, leaving the door open behind him.

"Where shall I put you? On the desk? On the window sill"

Hermione gripped the collar of his shirt. "Just set me down."

"No… I think I like contemplating you from below," he murmured, lifting her higher in his arms, nails digging into the column of her spine. She gasped and her hair fell around his face. She propped herself on his elbows and stared down at him. His eyes were the kind of dark at the bottom of a well. She discovered she liked that he was below her.

"Lift me higher," she said suddenly. She wanted to touch the ceiling with her fingers. She had never done it before.

Tom's eyes wavered like the water inside the well, but he obliged. He raised her waist until she was almost straddling his shoulders. It must have been an effort to keep standing, but he did it anyway.

Hermione shivered at the sudden geometry of their bodies. His head was level with her belly and her legs dangled on each side of his neck.

She had pored over the medieval instruments of torture from his books. She remembered the vise, remembered the feeble heretic who was told to lay his head between its clamps.

She felt Tom's every breath against the inside of her thighs.

She closed her eyes and reached up with one hand. Her fingers grazed the cool plaster of her ceiling. Maybe she would take the cats, she would take the strays with her. Only Umbridge would be punished.

She shifted forward, opening her legs wider, issuing what felt like an invitation. Tom did not even think. He buried his nose between her legs and inhaled.

Hermione clenched around his head, heel digging into his back. She became a vise. She became the instrument of torture. She imagined her iron strength. But there was softness too. Softness could choke. She became a white towel.

Tom smiled crookedly against the thin fabric, making her cunt twitch.

This was the second time she was doing it. The second time she was trying to rob him of breath.

She was getting good at it.

"I hate –" she started. The old refrain, _I hate you._

But not tonight. No. Besides, he already knew.

" -that bitch," she finished with a sigh. "I hate her."

Tom groaned against her swollen cunt. He wanted to tear the pyjama bottoms with his teeth. Hermione rubbed herself against his nose.

They were going to topple soon. Their bodies could not remain vertical. But he remained breathless for as long as he could.

When he finally dropped her down, he was gentle. Though his face was almost blue, he let her glide off him like water.

Hermione landed back on the floor, but she was discomfited. She wanted to stare at the desire in his eyes and erase the rest.

"Yes, pet," Tom spoke, his voice harsh, almost unrecognizable. His knuckles grazed her cheek. "She won't know what's coming."


End file.
